


empty world

by sunsetozier



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Drinking, F/M, M/M, Polyamory, Sad Richie, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, all will be explained next chapter, almost, also eddie is sad, also mike stan n patty are in LOVE, an alarming amount of emotional attachment to can't take my eyes off you by frankie valli, depressed Richie, fuck that, lonely richie, mike stan n patty have three, more tags will be added with each chapter to avoid spoilers, sentimental richie, that whole thing about the losers not being able to have kids?, what the fuck is happening? haha have fun guessing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-07-17 10:39:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 56,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16093979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsetozier/pseuds/sunsetozier
Summary: On this day, however, when Richie makes his way to the corner of Jackson and Witcham and comes to a stop under the road signs to look around, there is no Eddie in sight. In fact, there is no anyone in sight, the street completely and utterly bare of cars and people alike. It’s unusual, that’s for sure, and it sends an uncomfortable chill down Richie’s spine, but he chooses not to think too much of it, instead just rocking back and forth on his feet and waiting for Eddie to arrive.-On October 1, 1993, Richie Tozier wakes up to find that everyone else has seemingly vanished into thin air.





	1. i have not seen your face in so long

**Author's Note:**

> Make sure you've looked at the tags before reading (tags will be updated with each chapter in order to avoid spoilers).
> 
> This fic was inspired by an anonymous ask sent to me on Tumblr that requested a fic where Richie wakes up and finds he is the only person left on Earth. I spent a good month and a half trying to figure out how to approach that prompt before getting the idea for this and deciding to incorporate it into my Halloween series. I did ask for whoever sent the prompt to tell me who they were so I could give them proper credit for the idea, but have yet to get a response. If they ever tell me, however, I will come back and update this note to give credit where it is due.
> 
> ALSO: THANK YOU to my friend Sara (richietoaster) for beta’ing this series!! She’s such a fucking angel and I love her and I’m so grateful for how much she does for me like?? I don’t deserve you?? Thank you so much??
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

[October, 1993]

 

            Richie Tozier is seventeen-years-old when he wakes up to an empty world.

            It takes a long time for him to realize that anything is different. His alarm still goes off in the morning, just as it always does, and with his movements groggy and slow, he takes his time climbing out of bed. He doesn’t bother grabbing his glasses just yet, opting to squint through the low light in his room and making his way to the bathroom across the hall; he’s made this journey enough times that he could do it with his eyes closed, after all. Within the restroom, he goes through his usual wake-up routine, emptying his bladder and brushing his teeth, but before he flees back to his room to finish getting ready, he grabs two aspirin to ease the odd headache that’s currently throbbing behind his eyes and in his skull. Tossing the pills in his mouth and swallowing them dry, he ambles his way back across the hall, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as he does so, releasing a loud yawn that echoes in the silence of his home. He’s used to it being quiet during this time, seeing as both his parents leave for work at five in the morning and he doesn’t get up until six-thirty, but it never fails to feel eerie, and today is no exception to that.

            The first sign that something is off happens when Richie is making his way out of his house, clad in plain jeans and a bright orange sweater meant to combat the early-winter chill in the air, the same one that Mike and Eddie have both told him hurts their eyes to look at. His folks have yet to get him a car despite him having his license. They claim to be saving up for one that they’ll likely gift to him at Christmas, but until then, he still has to walk, which he’s never really minded much. Back in middle school, he would meet up with Bill on the corner of Jackson and Witcham and ride double on Silver the rest of the way, but after the Denbrough’s moved away their freshman year, that tradition came to an end. For awhile, Stan took Bill’s place in meeting up with Richie every morning, but then the Uris’s moved, too – the same month as the Hanscom’s did, actually. That, paired with the fact that Beverly moved in with her aunt right after the summer of ’89, leaves only three losers left in Derry, and since Mike has been homeschooled all his life, Eddie quickly agreed to becoming Richie’s walking buddy in the morning.

            On this day, however, when Richie makes his way to the corner of Jackson and Witcham and comes to a stop under the road signs to look around, there is no Eddie in sight. In fact, there is no _anyone_ in sight, the street completely and utterly bare of cars and people alike. It’s unusual, that’s for sure, and it sends an uncomfortable chill down Richie’s spine, but he chooses not to think too much of it, instead just rocking back and forth on his feet and waiting for Eddie to arrive. It wouldn’t be the first time that Eddie’s been a little late, whether it be because of his mother or because he slept in a bit. As the clock ticks on, though, ten minutes passing without Eddie’s arrival, Richie finds himself whistling under his breath to try and ward off the uneasy feeling. There’s nothing to feel so wary about, he knows – Eddie’s mom probably just heard him cough and put him in lockdown or something. It’s happened before, it’s completely plausible that that’s what’s happening here. If that’s the case, then Richie can just stop by the Kaspbrak residence later and pay Eddie a quick visit, just to make sure he’s doing alright and provide him some company, as he always does when Eddie is locked away, whether he’s actually sick or not.

            If he’s lucky, Eddie’s just fine and the two of them can sneak away to go visit Mike for a few hours. It’s been over a week since they saw Mike last, anyway. Poor Hanlon must be getting pretty lonely over on the farm without some quality Loser time. At least, Richie assumes so. He knows he would be going crazy without seeing any of his friends for so long.

            Deciding not to wait any longer, knowing that if Eddie isn’t here now then he most likely won’t be coming at all, Richie makes his way down the sidewalk, stuffing his hands in the front pockets of his jeans and shuffling across the street, not bothering to look both ways for cars as he goes. He hasn’t seen one thus far today, and he has a feeling that won’t be changing any time soon. For the most part, he keeps his head angled towards the ground, his faint whistling becoming a half-hearted hum in the back of his throat, and he doesn’t look up until he reaches the school, but when he does, he freezes.

            The campus is empty.

            Usually, when Richie arrives, there’s students bustling everywhere, some mingling outside for as long as they can get away with whilst others hurry through the doors to get to their lockers before they run out of time. Now, however, there’s not a single soul in sight, though it looks like there definitely should be – the usual number of cars are in the parking lot, some of which have doors that are wide open, whilst others are still running, keys in the ignitions and engines rumbling quietly. Timidly, he moves forward, making his way up the steps with somewhat shaky legs, trying and failing to come up with an explanation for this strange phenomenon. He keeps looking around when he gets inside, almost desperate to find someone who can tell him what’s going on, but there’s no one there, either. The halls are wide and vacant, each footstep echoing as he slowly makes his way further into the building. Classroom doors are wide open, the lights are on, and everything looks as it should, except for the fact that there are no teachers, no faculty, no student body, nobody to fill the space.

            For the next hour, he wanders through the entire school, searching each room, every nook and cranny, any space that he thinks someone may be. When he comes up empty handed, he tries again, roaming the building from bottom to top and then from top to bottom, to no avail. Eventually, he makes his way back outside, hands gripping his backpack straps so tight that his knuckles turn white. He’s never believed in any sort of God, no matter how often his parents tried making him attend church and youth group when he was a kid, but he finds himself praying that there’ll be someone around the corner – even one of the crotchety old men who always yell at him when he walks by would be a relief at this point. With a haste he hasn’t experienced since he was thirteen and trying to make his way through the sewers with his friends, he makes a beeline down street after street, heading to the dentist office that his father works at. When he arrives, he bursts inside, and is greeted by empty air.

            The same thing happens when he goes to his mother’s work, as well.

            Two hours into this, he starts knocking on every door, going from house to house and trying not to let the panic set in, though it gets harder and harder with each unanswered attempt. After scouring the entire town, he goes back to his house, pushing open the door and calling for his parents, hoping that they’ll be somewhere inside the building. He shouts until his voice is hoarse and his throat is raw, and it’s at this point that he has to sit down and breathe, his knees trembling so hard that he fears they’ll give out if he doesn’t.

            As the third hour hits, Richie has the sudden, terrifying realization that he is completely and utterly alone, stranded by himself in the cursed town of Derry, Maine.

 

 

 

 

            For a full month, Richie doesn’t leave Derry.

            He spends an entire week in his house, where he takes his time eating his way through the pantry and the fridge, watching movies on the TV and using his parents record player to listen to music. Anything he would have gotten yelled at for, he does – though his parents stopped yelling at him when he was fifteen, deciding he was old enough for more mature discussions rather than blatant scolding, but that’s besides the point. He makes his living room into a giant blanket fort, starts a bonfire in the backyard to roast marshmallows, and even turns the staircase into a giant slide. All of it is childish and a waste of time, he knows, but it’s a nice distraction from the fact that there’s no one else in the house, and probably no one else in the rest of the town, either. At one point, he slides down the railing to the stairs and ends up falling flat on his face, blood gushing from his busted nose. He lets out a groan of pain when it happens, and he almost whines out Eddie’s name – because he only ever does dumb shit like this when Eddie’s with him – but then his breath gets trapped in the back of his throat and the silence is much heavier than it had been before. It’s at that moment that he decides holing up in his house isn’t a good idea.

            During the second week, he wanders around Derry some more, checking public buildings and peeking through windows for anyone who may be hiding out due to confusion or comfort, like he had been. The streets feel intimidating in a way that he hasn’t experienced since he was a kid, when the world felt too big for someone as small as him to explore. He checks around each corner anxiously, hoping that there will be someone there, but there never is. As he makes his way down every street in town, he talks loudly to himself, just to fill the silence, and he wonders if there’s anyone hiding behind the locked doors of their house, but he doesn’t want to invade people’s privacy just to find out.

            But then the third week comes around, and he realizes that, if he really is alone here, there’s no such thing as privacy anymore. So, after gnawing on his lower lip nervously and looking around, as if expecting the police to suddenly appear despite knowing they won’t, he climbs up the front porch steps and he breaks into Bill Denbrough’s old house.

            Realistically, he knows Bill isn’t in here – knows that Bill hasn’t been here since they were fourteen and the losers hugged him goodbye in the front lawn – but part of him still expects the boy to be waiting inside. He’s randomly appeared in the past, after all. When Richie’s grandmother died two years ago, Bill convinced his parents to let him fly back to Derry just to spend the weekend with the Tozier’s and keep him company, being the shoulder to cry on that he always has been. He’s done the same for all of them at some point, and even though he moved to London, it’s never really felt like he was gone.

            Not until now, at least.

            The house is much different than it was three years ago, which is to be expected, but it’s still a little bit jarring. For starters, the people who moved in repainted the walls, making them a plain white rather than the soft, comforting yellow they had been before. The furniture isn’t at all like Richie remembers them being when the Denbrough’s lived here, the old brown couch that he slept on more times than he can count replaced with a plain black leather sofa – which, not to be petty, but Richie is certain that it isn’t nearly as comfortable as the one Bill had. Even the small details just aren’t the same, like the way the house feels. Where being here used to put Richie at ease, now it makes him feel stiff and uneasy, like he doesn’t belong. He chooses to ignore that for the time being, though, instead making his way through the bottom floor before heading up the stairs slowly, uncertainly.

            Bill Denbrough’s childhood bedroom has no trace of Bill Denbrough left behind. It’s clear that a teenager lives here, but it’s also clear that any hint of Bill has been cleaned out and wiped away. It feels completely unfamiliar and strange. Richie spends a solid five minutes standing there, taking it in, before promptly spinning around and running out of the house as fast as he possibly can. He doesn’t like how it feels to be in there. He doesn’t like it at all.

            For the following few days, he continues to do this, breaking into people’s houses and seeking the presence of anyone, though he doesn’t find a single person during this time. He does start packing up the useful stuff he can find, however, dumping his school shit out in the middle of the street and filling his bag with food and drinks that he snacks on throughout the day. He goes through Ben’s old house and snickers to the point of tears when he sees New Kids on the Block is still written on the wall inside of what used to be Ben’s closet. He can remember how long it took them to get Ben to agree to writing it, promising that they’d take full responsibility if his mom ever found out, but she never did, and, as he can now see, the words never went away. A similar experience happens with Bev’s old place, too, where he swears he can see a drop of blood glinting on the bathroom floor, but when he blinks he sees it is merely an old stain, a remnant of what had been there before.

             He walks past Stan’s place a few times, too, but it takes a couple hours of hyping himself up before he’s capable of going inside. It only takes six minutes before he has to push his way back onto the street, biting down on his lip so hard that he can taste blood on his tongue and trying to ignore the tears burning hot and angry behind his eyes. He’s only seen Stan a handful of times since he moved away, the few times his parents allowed him to visit his friends still in Derry. It isn’t the same as having all seven of them together, but it’s something. Ever since becoming the last three losers in Derry, Mike, Eddie and Richie have held on and looked forward to each and every visit they could get from the everyone else.

            Now he isn’t sure he’ll ever see any of them again. That’s not exactly a good thought to have though. He opts to push it away for a later time.

            The day that Richie decides he needs to leave town is the day he finally goes to Eddie's house.

            He isn't positive, but he's fairly certain it's been about four weeks since everyone else vanished, leaving him terribly and terrifyingly alone. Time has felt different since then, the days either blinking away far too fast or dragging by way too slow, so it's hard to tell, especially since he hasn't been keeping close track of anything since this all began. All he knows for sure is that his house feels different without his parents in it, and he always thought that the people of Derry made it so intimidating, but it's much scarier like this, the streets bare and the buildings empty. That shouldn't be too surprising, though, since he knows Derry hides a much bigger evil than what humans are capable of, than what the average person can even begin to comprehend.

            But that's not a good thought to have, either, so he chooses to ignore it. Instead, he wanders around, looks through some more unexplored houses, and tries to keep himself occupied despite having no idea what else there is for him to do. For a majority of this day, he talks loudly to himself to fill the silence, reciting his favorite movie scenes and singing his favorite songs at the top of his lungs. He figures that, if there is someone out there who he just hasn't come across yet, they'll have to reveal themselves eventually, even if it's just to tell him to shut up. That'd be better than nothing, he supposes. Hell, he'd be satisfied if someone emerged from the shadows just to beat the shit out of him and then run away. At least he'd know someone was there.

            It's as he's thinking of these things that he makes a subconscious turn down a road he's been avoiding since he left the confines of his home. He doesn't even realize what he's doing until he comes to a stop on the front lawn of the Kaspbrak residence, and when he does, he can feel his mind go blank and his mouth go dry in the span of two seconds, wide eyes staring up at the house before him with mortified shock.

            _Oh, fuck._

            He's been actively turning away from this house since he first discovered the absence of everyone else. There's a reason why, but he's been actively ignoring that, too, because he doesn't want to confront these kinds of things when there's nothing he can do about them anyway.

            Before he can convince himself to walk away, he takes a shaky step forward, instinctively moving to the side of the house to approach the window waiting there. He's been climbing through this thing for as long as he can remember, back when his scrawny little legs could barely carry himself in despite Eddie's house being one story, putting the window about four, maybe five feet off the ground. It's pure muscle memory at this point, the process of pushing open the glass and tossing his bag inside before making his way in, using his arms to lift himself and kick off the house lightly in order to get the momentum to swing a leg over the window pane, letting out a quiet gust of air once he's able to slip all the way through. For a moment, he holds his breath, listening for any footsteps like he always does when he sneaks into Eddie's room, but he lets the breath out loudly when he remembers that there won't be any. Usually, having no Sonia in the house is a relief, meaning he doesn't have to watch his volume when he comes to visit, but no Sonia means no Eddie, and that's the opposite of what Richie wants right now.

            Spending time with Eddie has always been one of Richie's favorite things to do, but it became even more so in recent years. With a majority of their friends moving away and Mike being home schooled, they've only really had each other for the past year and a half, seeing as no one else at Derry High gives a shit about them. Ever since Bowers got locked up in Juniper, the other members of his shitty little gang declared either missing (Patrick) or dead (Belch and Victor), there hasn't been much harassment or bullying. Sure, they still get the occasional snide comment, usually consisting of gross slurs and speculations about their friendship, but neither of them cared about what anyone has to say about them.

            During the summer, they saw Mike more often, but even then, he's getting busier and busier by the day, taking on more and more responsibility at the farm to help take the workload off of his father, who's slowly but surely getting weaker with each passing year. It makes sense why, since becoming a duo rather than members of a larger group, Eddie and Richie have gotten impossibly closer, more so than they ever have been before. Richie's spent so many nights sitting on this carpeted floor talking dumb shit that he can practically hear the echo of his and Eddie's voices in the silence that encompasses him, weighing down his shoulders and making his chest feel heavy and painful. Each breath is slow and agonizing, and he wants to throw himself back out the window and run away, but his feet stay planted.

            He doesn't move.

            Eddie's room is simplistic yet cluttered, plain white walls plastered with posters and pictures that the losers have gifted him over the years. There's a section of wall by the window full of nothing but polaroid’s, something that was started when they were twelve-years-old and Wentworth gave Richie his old camera, who promptly gave it to Eddie when he saw how much Eddie loved the damn thing. The first picture pinned up was a practice shot - Eddie's first attempt at handling a polaroid, where the camera was pointed in Richie's general direction but was moving too much to get a clear image, resulting in a shaky photo of a young Richie, his grin wide and cheesy, the flash reflecting off his glasses and his pasty skin looking a ghostly white. It's not a flattering picture, but Eddie insisted it was important and kept it anyway. Since then, more and more polaroid’s have joined the first, becoming quite an impressive collection of photos consisting mostly of the losers.

            It's this wall that Richie approaches after a moment of standing completely still, scanning over the photographs with watery eyes. He can pinpoint when each and every picture was taken - the one of Mike holding up a kitten and grinning is from Beverly's fourteenth birthday, when she had her aunt drive back to Derry to celebrate with them; the shot of Stan and Ben hugging under the starry night sky is from the night they both came clean about the fact that they were moving within the following month, and while they'd all been upset about it, they still managed to have a good time; the picture of Beverly in a large green flannel and a cigarette hanging from her mouth is from when she came back to celebrate Eddie’s sixteenth birthday with them; the photo of Bill on a porch swing is from the day before he moved, when they had one last sleepover at the mostly-empty Denbrough house, just for old-time’s sake.

            And then there’s Richie’s favorite picture, hidden among the rest but easy for him to find.

            He is the one who put it up there, after all.

            Mike had taken it, about two months ago, when the three of them were hanging out together at the quarry, trying to soak in the last of summer before September hit. They ended up staying out far later than intended, but they were having a good time, so they didn’t really care. Hours had gone by at a pleasant pace, the three of them talking and laughing, but eventually, they began to get tired. Richie was the first to succumb to his fatigue, his head in Eddie’s lap, which is when Eddie, who had brought his camera along to get a couple pictures, quickly gave the camera to Mike to snap a photo of them. The picture isn’t too good, kind of blurry and dark around the edges, but Eddie is grinning, his hands in Richie’s hair as Richie remains unaware of what is going on. While he may have grumbled about it after waking up, he is the one who insisted Eddie put it on the wall, and he’s been secretly admiring it ever since.

            With a deep, shaky breath, Richie carefully takes the picture off the wall and sits heavily on Eddie’s bed, staring down at it with wide eyes, his teeth sinking into his lower lip. The light filtering in from the window, bright and monochrome from the winter clouds gathering overhead, reflects against the surface of the polaroid, making it shine in his hands. His breath stutters in his chest, his throat closing and his eyes stinging with the threat of tears. Sniffling weakly, he brings up a shaky hand and brushes his hair out of his face before allowing himself to lay down on the mattress, and he absently realizes that the sheets smell like Eddie still. He lets out a long exhale, pressing the photo to his chest and pulling the blankets over him, and he begins to weep.

            He thinks that another full week goes by, or maybe it doesn’t, but it feels close to it. He only leaves Eddie’s room to venture to the kitchen for food when the snacks in his backpack run out, and he spends a majority of time just going through Eddie’s things – most of which have specific memories tied to them, moments from their childhood floating through his mind at a constant, overwhelming rate. It’s as he’s here that he decides he needs to do something about this situation he’s in, needs to leave Derry entirely and really look for people elsewhere. For all he knows, something happened to get the town evacuated and he was just unintentionally left behind. Maybe, if he leaves, he’ll find everyone else, and everything will be fine. Different, but fine.

            Though he knows his parents would never leave him, and his friends would have returned to Derry just to get him if he had been forgotten, but any hope is worth holding on to.

            The night before he really leaves, he decides to figure out the exact date.

            He figures, if he ever gets the chance to see everyone again, he wants to know how much time he missed. At first, he tries to locate something that might just tell him the date, like a fancy alarm clock or something like that, but he comes up empty handed. Desperate, he makes his way into the Kaspbrak living room and takes the calendar that’s hanging up off of the wall, settling himself at the dining room table with a sharpie in hand and his mind reeling, trying to add up the days that have gone by. He knows it was the first of October when this happened, so he makes a point to circle that date on the calendar to mark the beginning of… whatever the hell this is. After a moment of consideration, he counts up eight days that he spent in his home, before he started going around Derry, and another seven days of said wandering before he went into Bill’s house, which brings him to the fifteenth of October. After that, it took eleven days before he went in Eddie’s house, and that was… five days ago, which adds up to sixteen. Combine that with before, and that brings it up to the thirty-first of October.

            An entire month. That’s how long he’s been alone.

            For the rest of the night, he makes a list of everything he wants to take with him, things he refuses to leave behind – though he knows that, if he ever comes back, the things he doesn’t bring will likely be exactly where he left them. Once the sun rises, he bids farewell to Eddie’s house, the picture of them tucked safely into his back pocket, and he walks over to the dentist office his father works at. It only take a minute or so to locate Wentworth’s car, and he’s pleasantly surprised to discover it unlocked with the keys sitting in the front seat. If they were evacuated, his dad probably did this on purpose, knowing that Richie would find it. Or, if everyone simply vanished into thin air, it happened before Went got out of the car. Richie prefers to think that it’s the first one, and he drives back to his house to pack his things, storing some more snacks and such in the passenger seat and making sure he grabs the stash of emergency money hidden in the kitchen. If the rest of the world is fine, he’s going to need cash for gas and food.

            The clock on the dashboard says that it’s just past noon when he finally deems himself ready, and he looks over briefly, eyeing the calendar he brought with him from Eddie’s house, and he hopes that November will be better than October was. He hopes that he’ll find someone out there who can tell him what’s going on, and perhaps even find his friends and family, too.

            And with these hopes, he turns the key and he drives away.

 

 

 

 

[March, 1994]

 

            On Richie’s tenth birthday, his parents took him, Bill, Eddie and Stan to an indoor water park a few hours outside of Derry. It hadn’t been a surprise, really, but Richie acted like it was, putting on a performance by pretending to have no clue where they were going, and his parents let him, knowing it was only for good fun, and to bring laughter from his friends, who were just as excited as him. The drive felt like it lasted days, but they got to their location eventually, and the rides towered over them, making them feel minuscule in the best possible way. Even though they were all at least a little bit scared, none of them let that fear stop them from climbing the steps to the tallest waterslide the water park had to offer and going down it, screams loud, terrified, and ecstatic. They stayed there until the park closed, going on every ride over and over and over again, and Richie thought that he would never have a birthday better than that one.

            Then his fourteenth birthday came around, and he had more friends than he did before, and the six of them that were in Derry were loaded into Arlene Hanscom’s minivan and driven all the way to Portland to spend the entirety of spring break with Beverly at her aunt’s house. It was nearly a full month after Richie’s actual birthday, but they made it clear that, although late, it was meant to be a present for him, a chance to celebrate with all of his friends by his side, and he knew that it couldn’t get better than this.

            Again, he was proven wrong, as it was on his seventeenth birthday that he had his first kiss.

            Despite all his joking, Richie wasn’t exactly as much of a stud as he claimed to be. Actually, he was, by all definitions of the word, a complete and utter virgin, and by the time he neared his seventeenth birthday, he started to feel embarrassed about it. He complained about it for days to his friends – to Eddie in school, to Mike when they could hang out, and to everyone else over the phone – until all of them had told him to shut up about it at least thirty times. He didn’t shut up, though, whining about how he hated knowing he was basically a year away from being an adult and hadn’t had any experience with anything before. It wasn’t until the night before his birthday that he stopped complaining, and that was mostly because he spent the night watching movies with Mike, Eddie and his parents in his living room. The plan was to wait until midnight and have a few cupcakes to celebrate, but his folks worked hard at their jobs and passed out halfway through the second movie, Mike following not far behind, his head lulling to the side and his parted lips ghosting out quiet little snores by the fourth film. When the clock struck twelve, Richie and Eddie were the only two still kicking, and Richie immediately turned towards Eddie with a wide grin, whispering, “Do you want to eat all the cupcakes, since they fell asleep?”

            And then Eddie kissed him.

            It had been short, soft, and Richie sat stock still the entire five seconds that it lasted, his eyes wide behind his crooked glasses and jaw unhinged in shock. Eddie pulled back, eyes fluttering open slowly, and all Richie could get out was a breathy little, “Um…”

            “A cupcake sounds great,” Eddie said then, hopping to his feet and holding a hand out to help Richie stand. The only clue to what had just happened was the warm blush on both of their cheeks, but neither of them brought it up again. It was just something that they both knew of, and Richie no longer complained about his lack of kissing ever again, because his first kiss was from his best friend in the world and that was more than enough. He knew, without a doubt, that he could never have a better birthday, because nothing could ever top that.

            And, it appears, he was right that time.

            In the middle of Philadelphia, with a cigarette dangling from his lips and an empty gas station behind him, Richie watches the clock strike midnight. He expects to feel something when it happens, whether it be dread or excitement or a queasy concoction of them both, but all he does is blink and grab the notebook from the dashboard, taking the cap off his pen and scanning over the page for an empty spot.

            _March 7, 1994,_ he writes slowly, and for a long moment, all he can do is stare at the words.

            He’s eighteen-years-old today.

            Turning eighteen was supposed to be a big deal. His parents had been hinting at some big birthday surprise before all of this happened, saying that Christmas would be fine but his birthday would be way better. More than once, Maggie would look at him, misty-eyed and smiling, before hugging him close and cooing that she couldn’t believe her baby was almost an adult. Even Went, who was a stubborn man at heart, shed a few tears over the idea of seeing his son hit this milestone. His friends and him had discussed what they wanted to do to celebrate turning eighteen for months and months, and when Eddie’s eighteenth birthday came around in September, they wanted to all get together to celebrate but were unable to make it happen. Ben and Bev were the only two who could get back to Derry in time, but they had plans to meet up, all seven of them together for the first time since they were fifteen, during winter break and have a collective Christmas/Birthday bash for everyone.

            Because eighteen is important. The end of childhood, the beginning of something else. A new era. The big one-eight. Something to be excited about, something to throw a party over, something Richie had been looking forward to.

            He doesn’t really feel like celebrating anymore.

            When the cigarette burns to a stub, he plucks it from his mouth and tosses it carelessly out of the open window, his gaze catching momentarily on the dull glimmer of stars hidden behind clouds up above. In the back of his mind, he can hear his mother telling him that he should never smoke, can hear Eddie murmuring about how he lost his father to lung cancer, can hear his dad lecturing him about why smoking is the worst decision he’ll ever make. He can picture Beverly, red hair glimmering in the summer sun, visiting Derry for a few days when they were sixteen, sharing a cigarette with him and telling him how badly she wanted to quit, and he can remember himself promising her that they would quit together.

            As he reminisces on these things, he brings another cigarette to his lips and he lights it.

            Eighteen was going to be a big year, Richie thinks. He was supposed to graduate, get accepted into a good college – hopefully the same as _at least_ one of the other losers. He was supposed to drive out of Derry with the intention of not coming back until Christmas, when he would return only to see his parents. He was supposed to start his real life outside of that town, away from the bigots and the assholes, with his best friends, his losers, his family. He was supposed to be free.

            He was supposed to kiss Eddie again.

            That’s the thought that really gets to him, because that is a plan he completely forgot about. It had been a mere idea back in June, when he’d been kept up late with his mind full of thoughts that he couldn’t shake away. On that night, he thought about Eddie a lot, about their kiss, about their friendship, about how much closer they had gotten since becoming the only two members of their group to attend Derry High, therefore making them attached at the hip far more than they had been before, and he decided that he didn’t want to go his whole life without at least trying for something more. For the sake of romantic value, he chose to wait, saying that he would kiss Eddie when he turned eighteen, exactly a year after Eddie kissed him, and they would have a long, lengthy talk, and no matter what came out of that talk was, whether it be a continued friendship or more, he would be happy, because at least he tried, and at least he still had Eddie in his life.

            Now he wishes he hadn’t waited.

            Now he wishes he had jumped out of bed, gone to Eddie’s house, and kissed him right then, wasting no time in getting his point across, because now he doesn’t have Eddie in his life. Now he has no one in his life. He has nothing but himself, and he wishes he had acted before this happened, but he didn’t do that. No, he waited, thinking that was the better choice to make, and then he woke up on the first of October in a world lacking people, lacking the losers, lacking Eddie.

            The cigarette burns hot in his mouth, and the ash falls carelessly onto his arm, but he doesn’t pay it any mind, not even when the heat of it singes his skin. He doesn’t even bother to brush the ash away, letting it rest there. All he does is close his eyes, lower his head, and cry.

 

 

 

 

[August, 1997]

 

            It takes a few days, but after a lot of digging around the local office building for the right public records, Richie manages to track down Stan’s house.

            This place looks nothing like the Uris’s residence back in Derry did, bigger and brighter in many different ways. With a front lawn big enough to put a soccer field in and a porch that looks unnecessarily large, Richie can see the appeal of wanting to live here – can see why Stan had been so excited about his new house, no matter how upset he was about leaving his friends behind. Back in Derry, Stan’s place was much smaller, giving him no space to himself and no opportunity to hide from the scrutiny of his strict father and condescending mother. The Uris’s meant well with their son, but they never noticed the repercussions of their actions, never saw how much Stan shrunk in on himself when in their presence, instinctively trying to make himself smaller in the hopes of becoming invisible in their eyes. He told Richie once, when they were freshly fifteen and huddled together reading comic books in Richie’s room, that he would rather his parents pretend he didn’t exist than put so much pressure on him. Richie, who was well aware of how it felt like to have parents who acted like he didn’t exist, wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he turned the page and said nothing instead.

            According to Stan, moving to Atlanta, Georgia had done his family a lot of good. His parents loosened up considerably after the move, for reasons Stan himself couldn’t figure out, and he had been able to skip a grade after attending a much better school district, therefore catching him up to the rest of the losers after being held back a year in elementary. He made some friends, not many, and none as close to him as the ones he had back in Derry were, but they were enough to keep him entertained until he could see the losers again. One time, when Richie and him were on the phone, Stan had gushed to him for nearly two hours about how the only thing that could make living in Atlanta better would be having the rest of the losers with him. Richie was happy for him, ecstatic even, and wished more than anything that he would be able to go visit the Uris’s sometime in the near future to see what all the hype was about.

            Now he gets it. Or, at least, he thinks he does.

            The property is pretty unkempt, weeds overgrown and grass almost a comical height, but Richie knows that’s from the years that have gone by without anyone to tame it. Hell, Richie knows his own yard back in Derry must be a disaster by now – he was seventeen when he left, and he’s twenty-one now. Three and a half years is a long time without the lawn being mowed, so it only makes sense.

            He can easily imagine what the yard must have looked like before, though, when the Uris’s were still here. Even though Andrea and Donald loosened up as parents, Richie has no doubt they were still strict in terms of appearance when it came to their home, and he can see some remnants of the hard work they put into taking care of this place. There’s a shed on the far-left side of the house, the door wide open, and from where Richie stands in the center of the yard, he can see the gardening tools, the lawn mower, and other equipment meant to care for the greenery he stands upon. He almost laughs when he thinks about how Andrea would react if she saw this, but then he remembers that Andrea won’t be reacting to anything, and Stan won’t be in this house.

            Still, he goes inside.

            Much like he did back in Derry upon entering Bill’s old house, part of him still expects Stan to be waiting there, despite knowing for a fact that he won’t be – a twenty-one year old Stan, though, not the teenager Richie last saw, but his age wouldn’t have changed his personality much. Stan’s always been mature in the places where it counts and immature in the places it’s most fun, and Richie always thought that quality would carry over into adulthood, making him able to handle a situation and take care of himself, but also making him able to tell a real good joke and laugh himself to tears over it. Which is why, when Richie pushes open the front door with minimal resistance from the rusty hinges, he expects to hear Stan’s voice, the slightest bit deeper and smoother from physical maturity, call out a sarcastic comment about how it took long enough for Richie to get here, about how he’s been waiting for years and Richie clearly hasn’t stopped his trend of being late to things despite having no one in the world to slow him down.

            It’s silent, though, and Richie steps further into the home. He knew that it would be quiet, but that doesn’t make it any easier, and it only gets worse when he looks around and recognizes what he sees.

            Some of the furniture has been replaced, but Richie recognizes the curtains on the windows, and the pillows on the couch. They’re small relics, really, things Richie recalls seeing when he was young and stayed at Stan’s house for the night, but they confirm that he really is at the right place, and that thought makes his heart thud. Slowly, footsteps light and cautious, almost afraid to disturb the items within the home, he makes his way around the bottom floor, peeking through doors and taking in the interior of it all. He thinks back to his phone calls with Stan, tries not to acknowledge that they’re getting fuzzy in his mind thanks to all the time that’s passed, and he tries to apply the stories he was told to the rooms he sees. It’s pleasant to do, picturing Stan’s life here. It almost makes the ache in his chest go unnoticed.

            But when he goes upstairs and finds Stan’s room, the ache is all consuming. It burns and spreads across his torso, feeling like a fire ignited within his ribcage and scorching his insides. He chokes on a breath, the air getting caught in his throat and the charred remains of his lungs too weak to help him, but all of that is in the back of his mind, and at the forefront is the room before him.

            For a moment, it feels as though he’s been transported through time. He almost looks over and expects to see a chubby-cheeked Stan, with his boy scout uniform and his toothy grin, but then he blinks and comes back to himself, remembering where he is, both in terms of place and time.

            _Stan is not here,_ he reminds himself. _Stan is not here. Stop getting your hopes up._

            He has to repeat this sentiment in his mind a few more times before he can remember why he came here. Jaw clenching, he raises a hand, brushes some curls out of his face, absently notes that he needs to find some scissors to trim his hair soon if he wants to keep it from getting out of control, and he gets to work. At first, he just skims over the surface of the room, shuffling through the old papers and smaller objects littering the area, but nothing catches his eyes as worth keeping. He considers leafing through Stan’s closet and taking a couple sweatshirts as souvenirs, but that doesn’t seem like enough.

            He wants something meaningful to take with him, like the polaroid he took from Eddie’s room, the journal from Mike’s and the necklace he got from Bev’s – the latter two he got on his way out of Maine back in November of ’93. He’s been wanting to do this since then, wanting to collect some items from each of them in order to have something with him at all times to remember them by. Something that matters. Something that Richie can really cherish until the day he hopefully sees them again.

            Though, he will probably take some sweatshirts, too, if any of them even fit him. He doesn’t know if seventeen-year-old Stan and twenty-one year old Richie are close enough in size to share clothes, but it’s worth a shot.

            For the next fifteen minutes, he really rifles through Stan’s room, ignoring the bitter guilt in the back of his throat and telling himself that Stan would understand if he were here, which he isn’t. No matter how many times he goes through empty houses, though, it never fails to feel like he’s doing something wrong, like he’s invading someone’s privacy, even more so when the house is one of his best friend’s. He thought he’d be used to it by now, but the feeling never goes away. The guilt is always worth it, however, and this time is no exception, as Richie, after searching every inch of the room from top to bottom, finally finds something that feels important enough to bring with him.

            Growing up, Stan was in love with bird watching. He was gifted bird books as presents and carried a pair of binoculars around his neck everywhere he went. Richie never really understood it, and often teased Stan for it in good fun, but he always admired it, the way Stan dedicated himself wholeheartedly despite the fact that he had no one to indulge in this interest with. He didn’t care that he was the only birdwatcher in Derry. He only cared about the birds. About seeing them, observing them, and drawing them.

            Richie believes that Stan could have been an amazing artist, had he chosen to pursue it, but Stan insisted it was a hobby limited solely to putting the things he sees on the page. This sketchbook, however, proves otherwise, each page filled with detailed drawings of nature, animals, and even a few of his friends. It’s not a large sketchbook, one that could easily be held in a small bag, but too big to fit in his back pocket. That doesn’t matter, though, because he has a car, and if this car breaks down (or, rather, _when_ this car breaks down) he will have an endless supply of other cars to choose from, so he can bring whatever he likes with him. So long as it fits in the car, and this most certainly will.

 

 

 

 

            He realizes he won’t be able to get a souvenir from every loser about three hours after leaving Stan’s house, when the sun is setting over the Georgia horizon and the mix tapes he’s been listening to since he was seventeen are crooning gently from the speakers of the car. It’s his fourth car since leaving, having to switch vehicles when the last one ends up breaking down. Having to leave his dad’s car behind in Ohio was easily one of the hardest things he’s done, but he likes to be objective about it – if he ever sees his loved ones again, he’ll tell them everything he had to do, and they will understand. They won’t be upset with him.

            The drive is peaceful, sky a gradience of blues and pinks and purples, the moon already in sight and stars beginning to shine through here and there. The polaroid of him and Eddie is tucked safely in his front pants pocket, Bev’s necklace dangling between his collarbones, Stan’s sketchbook and Mike’s journal sitting in the passenger seat, and with a quick glance around the car, he starts to think about where to go next. Realistically, tracking down Ben’s house is easier, since Bill moved to London, but-

            And then it dawns on him, the obvious truth, a fact that he can’t believe he didn’t realize until right now, and the realization sucks the air right out of his lungs.

            There’s no way he can get to London. He doesn’t know how to operate a plane or a boat, and even if he did, he doesn’t know how to get to the UK from here.

            He can’t find something of Bill’s to carry with him.

            Without bothering to give it a moment of thought, he yanks on the steering wheel, the car making a sharp right turn off the road and careening into a parking lot, the entire vehicle shuddering slightly with the strain put on it as Richie slams on the breaks, bringing it to a sudden stop. His breathing is heavy, like he just ran a mile, and his head is spinning, grappling hopelessly for some kind of solution, something he can do to fix this, to make it so that he can do this, but nothing comes to mind. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tightens his grip on the steering wheel, trying to even out his breaths, but that doesn’t help. Frustration bubbles in his chest, anger and despair and anguish and rage, and all he can think to do is throw the door open, scramble to get out of the vehicle, and lash out entirely.

            His fists hit the car hard enough to bruise, his kicks weak but still forceful enough to send little shockwaves of pain through his knees, but he doesn’t acknowledge that until all the energy inside of him burns away, leaving him slumped against the hood with ragged breaths and split knuckles. It aches, each flex of his hand making it worse, but he just sniffles once, grabs his fresh pack of cigarettes out of the glovebox, and takes a look around.

            The lot he’s in much have been popular before all this, because nearly every parking spot has a car in it. On one edge of the lot is some kind of restaurant, but the sign must have fallen and the name is undetectable, so he can’t figure out what, exactly, it was called. On the other side is what appears to be a bar, the sign out front labeling the place Joe’s, posters full of mugs of beer plastered to all the windows. Richie stares at them for a few minutes, lit cigarette hanging limply from his lips, before straightening his shoulders and making his way across the pavement. If anyone deserves a drink, it’s him.

            Maybe taking a break will do him some good.

            Ever since leaving Derry three and a half years ago, Richie’s constantly been on the move. He’s searched through cities and towns, spending every waking moment seeking out any other person that might be out there. Sure, he lays down every night, and usually manages to get at least a few hours of rest, but he has yet to take a day off or give himself an evening to sit down and relax. Of course, he’s certain he won’t relax no matter what, but that’s not the point. The point is, he hasn’t stopped in three and a half years, and he’s going to lose his god damn mind if he doesn’t give himself some time to recuperate.

            So, he gets drunk. Fucking wasted. Hammered beyond belief.

            He had a few sips of alcohol during his teenage years, mostly when the losers decided to smuggle something that belonged to their parents along with them to the quarry or something, but none of them ever drank enough to really feel it. It was mostly done for the exhilaration of breaking the rules – they didn’t care much about the intoxication part. If anything, it was to make themselves feel like normal kids, to help them pretend the horrors they faced in the sewers of Derry had just been a collective nightmare and hadn’t been real, though they all knew the truth within themselves. Still, they preferred to not bring it up, and they did what they could to tell themselves it never happened in the first place.

            But now, Richie seeks the highest form of intoxication. He wants to get so plastered that he can’t remember his own name. He wants to drink until he passes out and needs to sleep for a few days to recover. He wants to forget everything in a drunken haze and dance the night away.

            Luckily, Joe’s Bar has a functioning jukebox in it, which only takes a few minutes for Richie to get working, and he’s pleasantly surprised to find the thing is hooked up to some speakers to enhance the volume. The song selection consists mostly of fifties, sixties, and seventies music, but it gets the job done in drowning out the silence, which is exactly what Richie needs right now. He selects a random _Best of the 50’s_ album and wastes no time to vault himself over the bar and start rifling through the wide selection of drinks behind it. All he knows about these drinks are what he heard in movies growing up, plus the occasional conversations his parents shared with aunts and uncles around the holidays, when they had too much spiked eggnog to control what it was they were saying. To be fair, he never paid much attention to to those conversations in the first place, but he vaguely recalls a few brands of wine that his Aunt Clara really seemed to dislike. Not that there’s any wine in a seedy bar like this, anyway.

            Deciding to throw caution to the wind, he grabs the closest bottle to him, and all he can tell from the worn down label is that it’s supposedly some kind of vodka. Bopping his head along to _For What It’s Worth_ by Buffalo Springfield, Richie pulls himself back onto the bar to sit on the countertop, his legs dangling over the edge as he unscrews the cap to the bottle, giving himself no time to prepare before he brings it to his lips and tips his head back to take a swig of the contents inside.

            It takes half an hour of coughing and spluttering his way through the bottle before he stops caring about the way it burns when it goes down his throat. The songs keep playing, sounding more like background noise than anything else in his otherwise cloudy mind, but as he gets more and more drunk, he starts to loosen up, the tension bleeding from his muscles and his thoughts blurring until he can barely think at all. By the hour and a half mark, he can hardly remember where he is and why, can only tilt his head back and sing along loudly to every song that comes on. He gets up at one point to switch to an _All Out 60’s_ album, and from that point on, he dances along, too, shouting the lyrics to the ceiling and letting himself have fun for the first time since all of this began.

            Two hours and eleven minutes in, a very familiar song comes on.

            _You’re just too good to be true,_ the jukebox coos gently, the words echoing around the room. Richie comes to a standstill, jaw unhinged and eyes drifting shut as he remembers the last time he listened to this song. More specifically, what had happened when he did.

            It was a few months after his seventeenth birthday, the middle of June and the beginning of summer break. Mike wasn’t available to hang out for a few more days, and none of the other losers were able to come visit Derry until July, leaving Richie and Eddie in charge of entertaining themselves. By that point, they were quite used to this, used to only having each other to rely on every day, due to the others moving away and Mike being so busy all the time, so it wasn’t a surprise, not really, but it was still a bit of a bummer, being unable to see all of their friends as often as they saw each other.

            On that particular day, they had chosen Richie’s room as their place of residence, the air conditioning blasting and the record player in the corner. The record player had belonged to Eddie’s father, and after Frank’s passing, it was the object of which Eddie became incredibly attached to but Sonia was oddly against him keeping, which is why he chose to have Richie take care of it. He knew that Richie wouldn’t let anything happen to it, and he often came over to the Tozier’s house just to lay down and listen to music. It became a tradition for Richie to surprise Eddie with new records for him to listen to when he came over, and this song had been on the record that Richie surprised him with that summer day.

            They weren’t doing anything, didn’t really want to do anything. Comics were scattered across the floor, but neither of them reached for one, opting to just lay back, shoulder to shoulder, and let the songs wash over them. And then this very song came on.

            _Can’t take my eyes off you,_ the record player crooned, much softer than the jukebox that’s blaring the lyrics now, but Richie doesn’t notice that, too lost in his head to care.

            When the song came on, Richie had felt his heart in his throat, as he always did whenever a love song played while he was in Eddie’s presence. It had only gotten worse since the night of his birthday, when Eddie had kissed him, quick and careful, and then acted like it hadn’t happened. Neither of them had brought it up since then, but something about their dynamic had shifted, and it was evident in the way they reacted to Frankie Valli’s soothing tone, faces burning red and eyes averting to opposite sides of the room in order to avoid looking at each other.

            _You’d be like heaven to touch, I want to hold you so much._

            Richie remembers the way his stomach twisted into knots, remembers becoming acutely aware of all the places they were touching – shoulders pressed together, elbows brushing against one another, legs knocking whenever they shuffled slightly. They were laying awfully close, barely any space left between them, and he hadn’t noticed that fact until the song had come on. He didn’t make any move the put space between them, though.

            Eddie didn’t, either.

            _At long last love has arrived, and I thank God I’m alive._

_You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off you._

            They were still as bricks for a long moment, both of them just listening, and Richie knew, just from the tension in the air, that they were both thinking about the same thing – thinking about how they had kissed three months prior, about how it had been fairly pleasant, about how they wouldn’t mind doing it again. Neither of them brought it up, though, both petrified by the idea of being shot down by the other.

            Then, as the lyrics, _Pardon the way that I stare,_ drifted through the air, Richie found himself turning his head, filled with the sudden need to be looking at Eddie in that moment. And with the next line – _There’s nothing else to compare_ – Eddie looked at him, too.

            _The sight of you leaves me weak, there are no words left to speak,_ the song went on, and Richie almost laughed, because the lyrics captured exactly what he was thinking in that moment. His body felt too heavy to move, his tongue incapable of forming words, his mind drawing a blank.

            And Eddie just kept staring back at him, grey eyes wide and curious, as if questioning what was going to come out of this, if anything was going to come out of it at all.

            _But if you feel like I feel, please let me know that it’s real._

_You’re just too good to be true, can’t take my eyes off of you._

            Richie reached over and grabbed Eddie’s hand. He kind of wanted to close the gap between them and kiss him, but something told him that it wasn’t the right time, so he didn’t try. Eddie seemed satisfied by this, though, and offered him a toothy grin before turning his head and gazing happily up at the ceiling. For the rest of the song, Richie looked at Eddie, and Eddie knew that he was looking, and their intertwined fingers rested between them, and everything was okay.

            In the middle of Joe’s Bar, Richie opens his eyes, the song sounding far away and distant despite the fact that he’s standing a mere five feet away from one of the speakers. The room, bare and dusty and vacant, stares back at him. In his chest, where he once felt his heart pound nervously whenever him and Eddie were together, he feels nothing but an empty kind of sadness that swallows him whole.

 

 

 

 

[April, 2001]

 

            It must have been stunning, back in the day.

            Richie snorts under his breath, shaking his head to himself as he realizes how old that sentence makes him sound, but it’s true. He never went to Disneyland as a kid, but him and the losers had always talked about wanting to go. They said they would save up once they were all adults and take a trip together one day. They were determined to make it happen.

            And now Richie is here, standing in the park, all alone.

            The colors are somewhat muted with age, years wearing down the paint and making the whole place look much older than the pictures Richie saw when he was younger, but it’s clear that it used to be vibrant and beautiful. Every building, while covered in layers of grime and dust and mildew, still has some of its joyful energy shining through, a wink back in time to a much happier establishment, one that was filled to the brim with people every day of the week. The land of laughter and joy and childlike wonder. Somewhere he dreamed about visiting with his friends by his side, like most things.

            With careful steps, Richie makes his way through the park, his eyes sweeping over his surroundings in a dulled out sense of awe. If things were different, he’s sure he’d be having a blast here, running around and going on rides, playing games, enjoying his time with his friends. Mike and Ben, being the bigger Disney fans of the group, would have been forcing Eddie to get polaroid’s of them with every costumed worker they passed, giddy with excitement, grins so wide they physically ached. Beverly would have challenged Stan to every game they saw, whether it be more of an arcade game or something carnival-like, and the two of them, competitive at heart, would spend all their time and energy trying to beat each other. Richie and Bill, while both being excitable and energetic, have never been as narrowed down as the others, willing to do whatever everyone else wants and able to enjoy it no matter what – most likely, that trait is what would have made them the prime targets for being dragged along by Eddie, the secret adrenaline junkie of the group, to go on every single ride the park had to offer.

            Richie knows they could have spent days here, weeks even, and they never would have gotten bored. They would have gone to every single restaurant and ordered everything on the menu, just for the hell of it. See everything five times and still want to see it again.

            He supposes there’s a lot of reasons why he doesn’t want to stay here for very long now.

            For one, he never imagined walking through a vacant Disneyland all by himself at the age of twenty-five. The atmosphere is eerie here – more so than an empty city, because this is a place specifically known for bringing joy and excitement. To see an amusement park meant to be so bright and joyous in a state of abandonment and decay just feels wrong, in an abundance of ways. It feels like the skeleton of a life once lived, of a place once loved. It feels like everything is exactly where it always has been but something is just a little off and he can’t pinpoint what it is.

            _Man, if Stan was here and felt like this,_ _he’d get so pissed,_ Richie thinks idly, snickering softly to himself. Stan was never much of a hard-ass, only pretended to be one, but he was never a fan of things feeling off. He always preferred to know that everything was where it was supposed to be, if only for the sake of not wanting to be caught off guard by something not in its place. He was always funny like that, even when they were just little kids – he always wanted to feel prepared for anything the world might throw at them. Perhaps that’s why the summer of ’89 had affected him so badly. It fucked with all of them, of course, but it seemed much more deeply rooted with Stan for a long time.

            Then, like Stan always does, he developed, he adapted, and he strengthened.

            God, what Richie would do to get even a bit of advice from Stan now. Just a sentence, a single word, something to hold him over for longer. By this point, all Richie’s holding onto is the thin string of hope that maybe, somehow, something will change and he’ll see his friends again. He doesn’t know how it could happen, but he also doesn’t know how he managed to end up in this situation in the first place, so he supposes a lack of knowing shouldn’t be a defining factor in what he hopes for.

            But that doesn’t make it any easier. No, not even slightly. That just makes it… bearable at best, survivable at worst. And Richie believes that that is enough, at least for now.

            He spends a few hours at Disneyland, wandering around, seeing just how big it really is. At every corner, he stops and examines the area around him, imagining what the losers would be doing if they were here, but it’s hard to picture now. In his memory, they’re all still seventeen, with the exception of Eddie, who had turned eighteen the month before everyone vanished. He knows they’d look different now, older, recognizable but only after a second glance – much like Richie himself, who can barely recognize his own reflection when he looks in the mirror. It’s difficult to see the boy he once was, hidden behind tired eyes, hair that he only bothers to cut every six months or so, and a scraggly beard that he shaves simply because he’s never been a fan of letting his facial hair grow out too much in the first place. The only signs left behind that he’s the same person are his crooked teeth, his glasses, and the basic shape of his face that sharpened slightly with age, stress, and weight loss but is still mostly the same.

            If things had been different, he knows he wouldn’t look like this. He would have taken better care of himself, gotten newer, more flattering glasses, invested in contacts and kept himself healthy. Sure, he’s never been the most careful with what he eats and never saw the appeal in working out, but he would have stayed on top of his hygiene at least, would have grown into someone he was comfortable with and confident in. The others would have, too. They would have gone from amazing kids to incredible adults. They would have become successful, by their own definitions of the word. They would have done great things. Richie knows this, believes it with his entire heart.

            Beverly was already using her trauma to strengthen her at a young age. As soon as she fought against her father and survived the sewers, she became confident in her strength, standing taller and not letting anyone try to tell her who she was. She dressed the way she wanted, not caring about what people had to say about it, and she didn’t let anybody stop her from pursuing what she wanted. She got a job in Portland as soon as she was fifteen, something under-the-table at a restaurant by her aunt’s house, where she became a waitress at sixteen and was still working before this happened. If Richie were to guess, that quality would have carried over into adulthood. He thinks she would have started a business, maybe, or become a manager somewhere. She would have been in charge, the boss.

            As for how she would look now, well… Richie thinks she would have ended up keeping her hair short, at least until her late twenties, so he believes it’s be right below her ears around now, curled against the nape of her neck. She wouldn’t have gotten too tall, but he doesn’t think she’d be considered short, either – maybe in comparison to Richie and Bill, who have both been unreasonably tall since they were fourteen, but she’d be average height compared to the rest of the world. Anywhere between 5’6 to 5’8, really. Her freckles wouldn’t be nearly as prominent as they had been in her youth, but they’d still be detectable by anyone who bothered to look close enough.

            Stan would be around the same height as Beverly, with his hair above his ears and his overall appearance put together neatly. He wouldn’t be as up tight, Richie thinks, as he would no longer be trying to look presentable in the eyes of his parents, but the habit would carry over at least a smidge, making him the best dressed in their group without question. Richie believes he would look younger despite getting older, each year going by taking weight off his shoulders until he had nothing negative left to carry. By this point, Stan would be so carefree and happy with the world, the scars on the sides of his face barely visible and his brown eyes so bright and elated that looking at him could make anyone smile. He probably would have become an accountant, like his parents wanted him to be, but he’d be good at it and he’d find a way to make it something he enjoyed, something he loved to do rather than something he felt obligated to do. That’s something Richie’s always loved about Stan – even the worst things could be turned around with enough thought and strong will.

            There are many ways Richie believes Ben would have turned out –he could have become confident in who he was or he could have found the right reasons to lose weight. Either way, though, Richie knows that Ben would have found a way to be happy with who he was, bullies and judgement be damned. He wouldn’t be very tall, but he’d be taller than Beverly and Stan by a couple inches, reaching Richie’s lower neck or chin depending on how thick the soles on his shoes were. Clothes would be soft, comfortable, much like Ben himself. His smile would be kind and loving. He, in his entirety, would be good and wonderful. Richie knows that Ben was planning to pursue architecture, but he also knows that Ben was a damn good poet and wouldn’t have given that up. He’d publish poetry books full of deep thoughts and careful words, but he’d also build the most stunning buildings the world could possibly imagine. Everything he did would be incredible.

            Like Ben, Mike would find success and confidence in himself. He never let himself be held back by Bowers or anyone in the first place, but he definitely wouldn’t have allowed people to hold him back – wouldn’t have allowed discrimination and racism to hold him back. Richie isn’t positive what Mike’s future held, but he’s fairly certain that Mike was planning on staying in Derry and taking the farm over from his parents as they got older. Because of this, Richie thinks that Mike would be quite buff now, just as physically strong as he always has been mentally. He’d stand tall despite being an average height. Anyone in Mike’s presence would feel the warm sunlight radiating from his bright personality, pure soul and inviting grin. Richie misses that warmth the most, he thinks.

            Bill had been hard to pin when they were kids, showing no real interest in one specific thing for a very long time, but as middle school ended and high school began, he fell in love with writing. He told Richie one night, when they were on the phone and chatting idly, that he put his nightmares down on paper and it helped him to cope with everything that had happened to them – especially when it came to coping with the loss of Georgie, who he hadn’t given himself the chance to mourn over until after the events in the sewer. Richie had read a few of his short stories over their teenage years, and, terrifying as they were, he has to admit that they are easily some of the best things Richie’s ever read. Bill would have made a great author, and he would have fit the roll, putting his creativity into his stories. Not much about him would be different from aging, other than his height and potentially his build, depending on if he ever started working out or not. No matter what, though, Richie would admire how he carries himself, even though he knows Bill wouldn’t be so tall in private, would shrink in on himself, make himself small, as he succumbed to his thoughts. Richie always had a feeling that Bill’s mind was louder than anyone else’s, after all.

            The hardest to guess, however, is Eddie.

            Eddie was always one of the most complex people Richie’s ever met. He was just as loud as he was quiet, crudeness in one hand and innocence in the other. He talked about wanting to be a nurse or a doctor or a psychologist one day, but the next day he’d rant about how owning a mechanic shop was his dream. Even the simplest things about him were hard to grasp, like his taste in music, his choice in clothing, his idea of entertainment, the things he found funny and the things he deemed too far past the line to laugh about. It took a long, _long_ time for Richie to understand Eddie’s mind.

            He liked to call himself the _Eddie Expert,_ back when there was an Eddie for him to know everything about. That title doesn’t really apply anymore.

            Richie thinks that Eddie would have found a way to fulfill all of his passions. Maybe he wouldn’t have ended up pursuing medical school, but he probably would have majored in psychology, minored in mechanical engineering. He could have been a psychologist or a therapist on weekdays and run a mechanic shop on weekends. Or, maybe, he _would_ have pursued medical school and became a nurse, a doctor, a surgeon, or something in that field. Richie may have been the Eddie Expert, but not even he could pinpoint what Eddie’s future held, what Eddie would have chosen to do. All Richie knows is that, once Eddie decided, he wouldn’t have given up until he achieved his goals, until he was living his best life and loving every minute of it. He wouldn’t have gotten much taller, no more than 5’6, but his existence would have radiated so much energy that he would feel like the biggest person in the room, the center of attention. Or, perhaps, that is just how Richie perceives it, because Eddie was always the center of his attention, but he likes to believe that everyone who met Eddie could see the potential, the sunlight, the pure love and goodness that came from his core, from the center of his being.

            Richie thinks that, if Eddie were here, if Eddie were in his place, he would have turned it into a challenge. A game, almost. A way to look at this empty world and make it something that’s almost enjoyable. So, deciding to give himself the chance to enjoy something, Richie approaches one of the rides, albeit a bit cautious and unsure. It’s a smaller ride, looking kind of like the classic Tea Cups that every carnival and fair has, but the control panel for it looks simple enough and that is precisely what Richie had been hoping for. After a few minutes of consideration and contemplation, he begins to search for a way to turn the ride on, pushing at buttons and flipping switches until, finally, he hears the machinery begin to whir. Excited, he looks up and watches as the platform begins to move, slowly at first, the rusted gears groaning in complaint, but then it starts to pick up speed. Richie grins—

            And then the ride stops, the whirring of gears grinding loudly, the sound of something snapping filling the air before a silence settles over him in a heavy blanket. His grin slowly fades away, his hands falling limply to his sides. The years of no use have really caused some damage, apparently, because the damn thing broke after a single attempt to get it working.

            Oddly enough, Richie isn’t that surprised. It fits the life he lives now – disappointing, a constant let down. He should have known better by this point than to get his hopes up like that, should know that allowing himself to hope will only result in exactly this, a vacant feeling of emptiness, a lost opportunity

            He is not Eddie, he realizes. He is not capable of making loneliness into something he can enjoy.

            With a soft sigh, one that reverberates in his chest and echoes gently in the empty space around him, he turns around and he doesn’t look back as he leaves.

 

 

 

 

[November, 2005]

 

            His jacket is thin, the air is beyond cold, and the hood of the car is not a comfortable place to lay down, but Richie stays there anyway, his spine pressed uncomfortably against the hard metal. The early winter chill makes his teeth chatter together loudly, and he knows being outside like this will get him sick, but he doesn’t care about that. All he does is shuffle slightly, adjusting the blanket in his lap until it covers his legs and his torso, the soft material gripped in his fists in an attempt to maintain some warmth from it. It’s not a very good blanket, though, and it doesn’t do much, but it’s better than nothing, so he just pulls it closer and lets out a slow breath that comes out in a little white cloud.

            Realistically, he should get up, get in the car, and go find a bed to sleep in for the night, but he doesn’t want to do that. No, he’d much rather sit here, cold as he may be, and look at the stars.

            He doesn’t know where he is.

            Well, that’s not _completely_ true. He knows he’s somewhere by Kansas City, because he drove through it a few days ago, but he hasn’t bothered looking at any signs or maps since then. He hasn’t bothered with a lot of stuff recently, like cutting his hair or taming his beard. He can’t remember the last time he looked in a mirror and assessed what was there. He just doesn’t see the point of it.

            He doesn’t see the point in a lot of things anymore.

            It’s a dark thought, he knows, but it’s a true one. After spending… god, how many years has it been since he’s been by himself? At least a decade, right? It was ’93 when all of this happened, which was… twelve years ago, if he’s counting right. Staying caught up on the date is the only thing he hasn’t been slacking on, but he hasn’t put much thought into how many years have passed. Jesus, he’s almost _thirty_ now. How the hell did that happen?

            That’s not the point, though. The point is, after spending twelve years suffocating in loneliness, it’s become more and more difficult to maintain a positive attitude towards the situation. Sure, he hasn’t given up yet, despite having an endless list of reasons for why he probably should, but he’s become a lot more pessimistic about things than he used to be. Where he once turned his despair into motivation to try harder, search longer, drive faster, but now… now the heaviness in his lungs just makes him tired, drowsy and slow. It’s getting harder to push himself forward, to wake up in the morning, hop in whatever car he’s got his hands on, and go. The only thing that motivates him is looking at the relics he has of his friends – the polaroid, the necklace, the journal, the sketchbook, and the poetry book he got from Ben’s. There’s still nothing of Bill’s, which always leaves a bitter taste in the back of Richie’s mouth when he thinks about it, but he can live with that. Or, at least, he _could_ , when he was still hopeful that he’d see Bill again some day. Now that hope has begun to dwindle, shrink, becoming more of an unrealistic wish in the back of his mind that he isn’t sure will ever come true, no matter how much he wants it to.

            God, he wants it to. He wants it to so fucking bad.

            He never liked being alone when he was younger. Something about it was panic inducing, to the point where it was hard to sleep at night when he wasn’t having a sleepover – which was never much of a problem, because Eddie, Stan and Beverly took any chance they could to get out of their houses, and Mike never had to worry about school nights like the rest of them. Even after a majority of the losers moved away, Eddie and Mike made sure that he wasn’t left alone as much as they possibly could, knowing how much he hated it. His parents had a long, extensive conversation with him about it, back when they were both too busy to really pay that much attention to him, when Went unintentionally prioritized his job over his family and Maggie didn’t see the problem in getting a little tipsy every night, every afternoon, every morning, every day. It was actually this talk that brought them back to earth and urged them to fix their shit, but the damage of being unintentionally neglected for so long had already been done. Richie was petrified of being alone, of being forgotten, of not having a constant reminder that people actually gave a shit about him and wanted him around.

            Now he’s always alone, and he hates it with every fiber of his being, but he’s used to it, too. For a long time, he used his volume to feel a little better, often shouting down empty streets and into vacant buildings. Sometimes he pretended his own echo was someone else, just to spark something within him that urged him to keep going, a little voice that told him that it wouldn’t just be an echo next time, it’d be a person, someone real, someone there, someone to keep him company, but no one ever called back to him. No one has been there for twelve fucking years.

            Richie can’t remember the last time he used his voice. Hell, he can’t even remember what it sounds like. That thought makes him frown.

            He stopped trying to speak over the silence a long time ago. It became more sad than comforting, a reminder that there was no one to talk to but himself. His throat feels raw and scratchy now, but that could also be because he hasn’t stopped to get some water in two days. It’s almost funny, when he thinks about it – if the losers saw how quiet he is now, they’d have a stroke. He never shut up back then, talking everyone’s ears off at any given opportunity. The mere idea of a silent Richie was next to impossible, but now it’s more than an idea. It’s a reality.

            But the losers would have been concerned, too, perhaps even unnerved by his lack of talking. They would have asked him if he was okay, offered comfort in the best way they could. Stan would talk to him, tell him about his day, his life, whatever he could think of so long as he didn’t stop talking, and eventually Richie would start talking, too. Ben would bring him something distracting (or, rather, _send_ him something distracting, since he moved away), like a book or a puzzle or something to occupy his hands and distract his mind. Mike would bring comfort food, snacks and treats, but he’d bring healthy stuff, too, because he knew that Richie never took care of himself when he was upset. Beverly would listen to music with him, whether it be in person or over the phone, depending on if she was visiting Derry or not, and she’d let him choose the songs they listened to so that she could understand what mood he was in – if he was mad, sad, or something else. Bill would read Richie some of his stories, his voice a little fuzzy from the long distance call, and he’d only hang up once Richie fell asleep on the other line.

            Eddie would just sit with him, a silent presence. Usually, it’d start with them being a few feet away from each other, Richie stiff and silent, Eddie waiting patiently, but then Richie would scoot over, close the distance, and lay his head on Eddie’s shoulder. Sometimes, he would tell Eddie what was wrong. Sometimes, he would cry. Most of the time, he wouldn’t do anything at all, just sit there, seeking comfort from Eddie’s tough, until his tension was gone and he could smile again.

            Richie knows the losers hated it when he was quiet, no matter how many times they jokingly complained about him being too loud. He knows they would hate seeing him like this, not taking care of himself, risking his health and never murmuring a word. He doesn’t want to become something that they wouldn’t want to see.

            He doesn’t want to be someone they wouldn’t want around.

            So, with his gaze dancing along the stars that shine bright above him, he opens his mouth, and in a croaky, unused voice that’s not at all pleasant to hear and almost painful to use, he begins to sing.

 

            _I love you, baby_

_And if it’s quite alright_

_I need you, baby_

_To warm the lonely nights_

_I love you, baby_

_Trust in me when I say_

_Oh, pretty baby_

_Don’t bring me down, I pray_

_Oh, pretty baby_

_Now that I’ve found you, stay_

_And let me love you, baby_

_Let me love you_

_You’re just too good to be true_

_Can’t take my eyes off you…_

 

 

 

 

[June, 2012]

 

            If things had been different, Richie thinks he would have moved to California.

            He isn’t sure what he would have done here, but there’s just something about the air – it’s sweet, almost, comfortable and warm. It never gets as humid as Derry does, and the sun is addicting to sit under, to stretch out and soak in. He’s made his way back to California plenty of times over the years, and out of every city he’s driven through in his search for other life, Los Angeles is his favorite.

            It’s just as eerie as the others, abandoned buildings and vacant parking lots full of empty cars with the keys still in the ignitions, but it’s nice, too. Richie can picture it if it weren’t empty, can imagine the sidewalks bustling with people, restaurant filled with chatter and laughter and all good things. He wanders the streets a lot when he’s here, hands in his pockets and eyes flittering around. Sometimes he’ll spot buildings and houses that have crumbled from being worn down by years of harsh weather and no one to keep them intact, and he wishes things hadn’t turned out like this. He wishes he could have seen L.A. when it was alive and thriving. He wishes a lot of things.

            Today, he does not wander the streets and look around, nor does he climb up to the Hollywood sign just to see it up close, as he’s been wanting to do for a few years now. Instead, he finds his way to the beach, and he sits down, and he enjoys the sun.

            The sand is warm beneath him, pleasant to bury his hands into and burrow his toes under. In front of him, the ocean glimmers, gentle waves lapping at the shore. He considers going for a swim to cool off in this mid-summer heat, but he opts against it for now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe the day after that. Maybe not at all. He has no preference, not really. If he feels up to it later, he will. If he doesn’t, he won’t.

            Beverly would have made him swim.

            At least, he _thinks_ she would. It’s hard to guess what Beverly would be like at this age, but he’s sure she would still be the first to wade into the water and tease the others for being pussies until they followed in after her. That’s something she was always good at, bringing them out of their comfort zones just enough to confront their anxieties and have fun even though they had originally been wary. Even at thirty-six, Richie knows she would be exactly the same, at least on that front. She’d probably be much different in a lot of other ways. Everyone would be.

            Everyone would have families by now, Richie realizes suddenly. They wouldn’t just be losers, they’d be parents, husbands, a wife. They’d be home owners. They’d have their lives together. They’d be happy members of a happy family.

            Richie always wanted to be a dad. He always thought he’d be good at it, too – especially if the other parent was Eddie, which he likes to believe it would have been. He likes to think that, had things been different, he would have kissed Eddie on his eighteenth birthday, would have confessed his feelings, been true to himself and open to Eddie, and Eddie would have felt the same. Together, they would have moved out of Derry, gone to college (preferably the same one, but they would have been able to get through being separated, would have loved each other far too much to let something as silly as distance break them up), graduated, gotten a house, started a family, spent their entire lives side by side, with the losers and all the losers kids surrounding them. Eddie would have been the more relaxed parent, Richie knows – not intentionally, per say, but he’d be so scared of becoming overbearing, like his mother had been, that he would end up being too relaxed in regard to his children. In comparison, Richie would have been the helicopter parent, spurred on by the need to make sure he never accidentally made his kids feel as abandoned and unloved as he had felt when his own parents accidentally neglected to take care of him. Eventually, though, the two would have found a nice balancing point between being a pushover and being a hard ass, and they would have loved their kids more than words could ever begin to explain. Not to mention that, adopted or not, any kid of Richie and Eddie’s would end up being a hilarious mix of caring, witty, and sarcastic. Pure bundles of joy.

            Beverly and Ben would have been incredible parents, too. At the age of seventeen, the two of them were still edging around their feelings for each other out of fear of offending Bill, who had spent quite some time getting over Beverly after their relationship ended upon Bill’s move to London, but neither of them seemed to notice that Bill was rooting for them, too. Sure, he was upset over the breakup, but they hadn’t dated long, and they were in their early teens when they did date. After a few months, Bill understood that they were much better as friends, and he could see how incredible Ben and Bev were for each other. There were many times when Bill would call Richie and asks for updates on those two, only to be severely disappointed when he heard there weren’t any, but Richie knows they would have gotten together eventually. He isn’t sure if it would have happened in college or after, but it would have happened no matter what, and the two of them would have ended up with an amazing family – a kid or two, Richie thinks, with Ben’s kindness and Bev’s snark.

            Speaking of Bill, he would have found a wonderful wife (or husband, if that’s how things went, but Richie has a feeling he’d end up with a lovely woman) that fit right into their group. She’d balance out his seriousness and his immaturity, but she’d also make him softer and assure him that, appointed leader of the losers or not, showing vulnerability is not something to be ashamed of. Not that Bill was ever against being vulnerable – he often encouraged the others to show their vulnerability, to take pride in it, but he could never follow his own advice. However, his wife, whoever she would have been, would help him with that, in a way the losers never could, and the two of them would pass that onto their kid. Just one, Richie thinks. Bill would be a great dad, but Richie knows he was afraid of one of his kids suffering the loss of a sibling like he did, and therefore only wished for a single child that would have plenty of cousins to play with, thanks to the other losers. Richie understands, in a way, but he also doesn’t, because he’s always wanted many children, as many as him and Eddie could have possibly handled.

            Stan… is a little bit harder to pinpoint, simply because Richie isn’t positive about who Stan would have ended up with. Before moving, he had shown a lot of interest in Mike, but that interest seemed to come to a stop, leaving Richie under the impression that he had either moved on or given up on the feelings being reciprocated due to distance. Richie knows Mike felt the same about Stan, though – while Mike and Stan would talk on the phone once or twice a week, Stan would call Richie every day, and Mike always asked Richie about how Stan was doing. He seemed particularly intrigued by any mention of Stan’s potential love life, but Stan didn’t _have_ a love life, which was something else that always caught Richie’s attention. Despite apparently moving on/giving up on Mike, Stan never showed interest in anyone else. So, while Stan could have very well ended up falling for someone else, marrying and starting a family with them, he also could have also very well been with Mike, too. Which is where the struggle comes in, because if Stan had kids with a stranger, Richie can only pin down subtle things about how those kids would have turned out – quick-witted, like Stan, and incredibly smart, but a majority of their other traits are impossible to speculate about. If Stan had kids with _Mike_ , however, Richie knows that those children would have been the kindest kids to ever exist. They’d be patient and open-minded, much like Mike, but they’d also be fast thinkers and little geniuses, like Stan.

            As for Mike, Richie can’t see him starting a family with anyone but Stan. Marrying someone, falling in love, sure, but Richie doesn’t think he’d have any kids unless he had kids with Stan.

            On this beach, the losers and their children would have had a blast.

            Richie thinks he would’ve sat right here, just like this, and would have appreciated it for a little while, watching as Ben and Beverly bring their youngest into the water while their older kid builds sand castles with Richie and Eddie’s. He thinks that they’d have two kids at this point, an older one, maybe six or seven, and a younger one, no more than a year old. It’s kind of stifling, how easy it is to picture that, actually. He feels like, if he were to look to his right, he’d see Eddie, in all his thirty-six year old glory, holding up their youngest and cooing gently. For a moment, he almost does look over, but he stops himself, knowing that he’d only be disappointed by the empty space.

            The constant empty space, a space where no one is ever there.

            He doesn’t think he’s ever going to see his friends again.

            That had been his string of hope all these years, the thing that kept him on his feet no matter how much he wanted to sit down and never get back up. No matter how hopeless he felt, he would tell himself that there’s still a chance, that maybe, somehow, things will change and he’ll return to the life he never got the chance to live, the life he deserved to have. Now, however, he doesn’t tell himself that, can’t get the words out. They taste like a lie, false hope, sour and bitter and wrong. They taste like acid and heat and pain and anguish and all bad things.

            They taste like that because they aren’t true. He can’t say he’ll see them again because he doesn’t believe it anymore. He thinks he’s stuck here, alone, until the day he dies. But he’ll wait it out some more, just in case – he doesn’t want to miss the opportunity to see them again, no matter how small a chance that may be. But without the ability to maintain hope, he doesn’t think he’ll hold on for too much longer.

            Leaning back on his hands, fingers buried beneath the soft sand, he tips his head back, lets the sun warm his skin, and sighs.

 

 

 

 

[October, 2016]

 

            Despite the dust and the faded color from the years gone by, Eddie’s room looks exactly the same as the day Richie left. Some of the pictures have fallen from the wall, the tacks that had been pinning them up coming loose over time, the window pane is more yellow than white, the paint on the walls peeling, and some of the posters on the walls have fallen, too, like the pictures. But, overall, it almost feels like he’s seventeen again.

            Standing in the doorway, Richie closes his eyes, and he pictures the nights he slept in this room, climbing through the window and giggling quietly underneath the duvet, where him and Eddie would whisper to each other to keep from Sonia hearing them, not wanting her to know that Richie was there. He remembers helping Eddie hang up these posters, standing on a chair and following Eddie’s instructions to move it up, down, left or right. He remembers a lot of things about this place, about Eddie.

            He opens his eyes, blinks slowly, and steps further into the room. One of his hands drifts away, fingertips grazing against the wall lightly as he walks past, feeling every bump in the decaying paint. Each and every detail feels bright and out of focus, like his brain is reeling with seeing something so achingly familiar after so long. Twenty-three years is a big gap between visits. After that long, Derry itself had begun to feel like a far away dream land, a figment of his imagination. Something that never really existed in the first place.

            But he’s back now. It feels odd. It feels very, very odd.

            The plan hadn’t been to come to Eddie’s place. He had one scheduled stop on his way into town, and then he was supposed to go back home, to his own house, but when he saw this street, he couldn’t resist. Without even meaning to, he had taken that turn, pulled into the driveway, and made his way inside.

            Being in here, he… he feels _guilty_. He feels like he doesn’t belong within these walls, like he isn’t worthy, not as the person he is now. Maybe when he was younger, sure, but not anymore. Not as this guy, hopeless and tired. Someone who hasn’t spoken in... what, half a decade? Just because he has no one to talk to. Someone who doesn’t take care of himself, who hasn’t bothered keeping up with his hygiene in the slightest, hasn’t even sought out a shower in weeks. It’s not like there’s anyone to see him like this, anyone to impress. There’s just no point to it anymore.

            It’s different in here though. It feels like there are eyes on him – eyes from the past, remnants of Eddie in here, and he can almost hear Eddie’s voice in his head, telling him to take care of himself, to get in the shower and brush his teeth. He can almost picture it, too, can almost see Eddie’s glare, both concerned and disapproving, can envision the shake of his head as he takes out a pair of scissors and instructs Richie to sit down so that he can cut his hair.

            But the Eddie he’s imagining, that’s not real. That’s an Eddie of eighteen-years-old. If Eddie were here today, he’d be fourty. Richie wonders what fourty-year-old Eddie would do if he found him like this.

            Fourty-year-old Eddie isn’t real either, though. There’s no Eddie anymore. There’s only Richie, alone, forever. And that is exactly why Richie is back in Derry.

            With one more sweep over the room, his features somewhat strained, his exhausted eyes teary behind his old glasses that are barely hanging on after all this time, he turns around and he walks back into the hallway. With each and every step he takes, the feeling of eyes on him lessens. By the time he reaches his car, the feeling is gone completely, and it is with a sense of ease that he finishes the drive back to his childhood home.

 

 

 

 

            He can’t tell what is more strange: sitting in the bedroom he grew up in, or knowing what it is he is about to do within these very walls.

            Much like with Eddie’s, Richie’s room looks almost exactly the same as it did when he left Derry, with the exception of some shifts in time, a collection of dust and some things that came loose and fell down, as well as some cracks and damage caused by weather and uncontrollable circumstances – plus, of course, the items sprawled out on the floor in front of him; the polaroid, the journal, the poetry book, the necklace, and the sketch book, as well as a red and black flannel that he had found a few months back. It isn’t Bill’s, sure, but it makes Richie think of Bill, and that’s good enough.

            His bed feels a lot older, not as nice and comfortable as he remembers it being, but his sheets and blankets are the same, kind of soft and fluffy, pleasant to sit on. Absentmindedly, he runs his hands over them, feels the smooth material beneath his palms, and he considers postponing his plans just to get a night’s rest in this very bed, just for old time’s sake, but he’s tired of postponing, tired of pushing it back, of waiting. He’s done hanging onto a thread of hope that things will change. They won’t.

            Still, though, he soaks in the moment, lets it wash over him, both the strange and the pleasant. He breathes in deep, exhales slow, and smiles. Steady hands withdraw from the blankets and return to his lap, where the object of his choosing awaits, the metal cool to the touch, almost soothing. It hadn’t taken long to find it, only ten minutes or so of searching through the local police station, and it’s not the most pleasant way to go, he knows, but it’s arguably the quickest, and that’s exactly what he’s hoping for here. Something fast, something he won’t get the chance to feel before he’s gone. Not exactly painless, really, but something that will end it all before the pain registers.

            The gun is simple, he realizes, the basic kind an officer usually carries. It’s not exactly light, but it isn’t heavy, either, a comfortable weight in the palms of his hands as he holds it a little higher. There’s no need for this kind of examination, but he supposes there’s nothing wrong with killing a little bit of time before killing himself.

            A grimace forms on his lips at that thought. He doesn’t like the wording. That’s what this is, he knows, but it feels much more complex than that. He isn’t just _killing himself_ – he’s finally putting himself to rest, ending the day to day torment that he’s endured for twenty-three years now. He’s letting go of the false hope that things will change. He’s giving up, or giving in, depending on how one would choose to look at it. To put it more simply, though, he’s done. He’s exhausted.

            He’s not living another day like this, so he’s not living another day at all. It’s just that simple.

            It’s quite the accomplishment, though, he thinks. He made it over two decades with no one but himself. Two decades and two years, all alone. If he were to ask his seventeen-year-old self how long he thought he could survive without anyone else around, younger Richie would have laughed and said, “Five minutes, maybe.”

            If anything, he’s quite proud of himself for making it this long. He doesn’t think very many people could have kept it together as long as he did. Part of him wishes he would try to wait a little bit longer, but he just… he can’t. He can’t do it. Not anymore.

            With that thought, he tentatively curls his fingers around the holster of the gun, taking it into one hand gingerly, the other hand raising to scratch idly at his scruff of a beard that he hasn’t bothered taming in nearly two months. The moment feels strangely nice, much different than how he expected it would – there’s no heaviness, no dread, no fear. Only acceptance and peace.

            He turns the gun, angles it up, presses it to the underside of his chin. It tickles slightly, and he kind of smiles, but it isn’t a full smile. He wonders, briefly, if there is an afterlife, and if everyone else will be there. The idea that they all died when they seemingly vanished has never been a pleasant one, but it’s got a nice ring to it now, the thought of reuniting with everyone he loves in a land beyond this, where he can spend eternity with them and never feel lonely again. Now he smiles fully, almost excitedly, and raises a finger, brushes it against the trigger—

            And then, echoing throughout the silence of the house, the phone begins to ring.


	2. but i will never forget your name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you sm to sara ((richietoaster)) for betaing this!! ur the best ily
> 
> also this is a little late because i got a job and whatever but chapter three will not be late i promise

[October, 1993]

 

            Eddie Kaspbrak is eighteen-years-old when Richie Tozier goes missing.

            Of course, he doesn’t know that Richie is missing at first. Actually, he doesn’t know until the end of the day. In the morning, when he arrives at the corner of Jackson and Witcham, he’s only mildly surprised to find that Richie isn’t there – his mother had, as per usual, been a major pain in the ass when he was trying to leave the house, placing her warm palm against Eddie’s forehead and claiming he had a fever despite the fact that he feels perfectly fine. She spent a solid twenty minutes blocking the doorway and insisting he stay home to be taken care of, and it wasn’t until he promised, fingers crossed, that he’d go straight to the nurses office and come home if he started feeling ill that she stepped aside. Even then she had been wary and held him back another five minute just to ask if he was sure, putting Eddie way behind schedule and making him horrendously late. Eddie figures, after a certain amount of time, that Richie decided not to wait for him any longer. It’s happened before, it’s nothing unusual.

            So, he makes his way to school, his hands shoved in his sweatshirt pockets to maintain some warmth in the chilly fall weather. While he may despise his mother’s obsessive behavior over his well being (though it’s nothing compared to how she was before he discovered the truth behind his medicine), she had been right about one thing: he needs to wear more layers during autumn. Every day, without fail, he ends up wishing he had brought another jacket along, or a thicker sweater, or even just a blanket that he could carry around all day in order to avoid the cold. No matter how many times it happens, however, he always forgets the following day, and the day after that, and so on and so forth until spring comes around and he doesn’t need the layers any more. While he often chalks it up to being a slip of the mind, he has to admit that he never bothers to remember because he knows that Richie will offer the spare sweatshirt in his backpack if Eddie starts to shiver. And maybe Eddie enjoys wearing Richie’s sweatshirts. They’re a few sizes too big and always feel much warmer and more comfortable than whatever he has on.

            It’s just nice. That’s all.

            He starts to feel a little bit wary, a little bit worried when he gets to school and Richie is still nowhere to be seen. While Richie may whine and cry about how much he hates school, he hardly ever misses any days, but Eddie assures himself that this must just be one of those rare occasions where Richie ends up skipping. Most likely, he slept through his alarm and is lying in bed right now, blissfully unaware of the fact that he’s running late. With this reassurance, Eddie makes his way to his first class, convinced that Richie will show up within the next hour still wearing pajamas, hair a mess and glasses askew.

            When lunch comes around and Eddie has to sit alone, however, he isn’t so sure. As he sits there, frowning down at his food, he finds that he isn’t hungry – his stomach is twisted up, uncomfortable and queasy. There’s no reason to be so concerned, he knows. Richie probably _did_ sleep in and decided to just stay home once he woke up. That’s happened a few times before, mostly following the summer of ’89 and he couldn’t bear facing anyone after whatever horrible things plagued his dreams the night before. Eddie had been similar, often faking a stomach bug so that his mother would keep him on bed rest and he could remain undisturbed for a majority of the day. These things stopped happening after a few months, though, because they all realized that the best way to deal with what they went through was to just keep living, and part of that was going to school no matter how bad their nightmares were.

            However, Eddie chooses to push the uneasiness away, telling himself that there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for Richie’s absence. Perhaps he caught the cold that’s been spreading throughout the student body. Eddie’s fairly certain he’s starting to catch it, can tell by how sniffly he’s been the last few days, so it wouldn’t be a shocker if Richie has it. After all, they spend a majority of their time attached at the hip. If Eddie’s getting sick, Richie must be, too.

            He gets through the rest of the school day just fine after coming to that conclusion, though it does seem to drag on a bit more than usual without Richie’s presence to keep him entertained during boring parts of class. That’s both the upside and the downside of senior year – with only a certain amount of credits left to graduate, they’re in a majority of the same classes, often able to sit in the back and get their work done in record time before dicking around until school’s over. Without Richie around, however, he has to sit alone, slumped in his chair and staring down at his work while he waits for the bell to ring. By the time he makes his way home, he’s itching to just make a left turn and head to Richie’s house instead, just to make sure he’s feeling alright, but he didn’t say anything about going anywhere after school to his mother and, eighteen-years-old or not, she’ll throw a fit if he doesn’t at least pop in and let her know his whereabouts before going somewhere else. Plus, he has way too much homework weighing down his backpack that he didn’t finish in class like he usually does, work that he needs to complete in order to assure that he’ll be graduating in June. So, concerned as he may be, he makes his way to his own house and tells himself that he’ll stop by the Tozier’s if Richie doesn’t show up to school tomorrow.

            The work is tedious and headache inducing, but he makes sure to write his answers on a spare piece of loose leaf paper for Richie to copy down when he gets the same assignments. Once that’s all done, the sun is already setting and he’s contemplating just going to bed without eating dinner when he hears his mother call for him from the kitchen. Suppressing an aggravated groan, he pushes himself to his feet and ambles down the hallway to see what she wants. She looks more displeased than he feels upon entering, however, and holds the phone out to him with a frown as she tells him, “Someone’s on the phone for you. Be quick, it’s getting late and you still need to eat.”

            “Okay, Ma,” he murmurs, rolling his eyes as he reaches forward and takes the phone from her hands, ignoring the way her frown deepens at the action before making her way to the living room. Once she’s gone, he brings the phone up to his ear and twists the cord around his finger. “Hello?”

            “Hey, Eddie,” a familiar voice greets – a voice similar to Richie’s, only older and much more mature, quickly identifiable as one Wentworth Tozier. “I was just checking in to see if Richie’s coming home anytime soon, or if he’s staying at yours tonight?”

            Eddie falters at that, brows pinching together as he slowly responds, “Um, Richie isn’t here. I haven’t seen him all day. I… I thought he was home sick or slept in or something.”

            A moment of silence hangs over them. “He’s not home,” Went states stiffly, sounding much less relaxed as he did before, and Eddie feels sick, realizing that what he thought to be the case clearly isn’t true. “Mags and I just assumed he went to your house and forgot to tell us again. I, uh- I don’t know the Hanlon’s number, but can you give them a call and see if he’s there and get back to me, please?”

            “Yeah, of course,” Eddie replies, already detangling his finger from the cord and reaching over to hover over the numbers. “I’ll call you right back.” Not even waiting for a response, he ends the call and dials Mike’s number from memory, ignoring the way his hands tremble as he does so.

            The phone rings for a few moments before he hears a polite, “This is the Hanlon’s house, Mike speaking! May I ask who’s calling?”

            “Mike!” Eddie exclaims, not bothering with any proper greeting as he rushes out, “Richie wouldn’t happen to be at your house, would he?”

            Clearly caught off guard, it takes a moment for Mike to answer, but when he does it’s with a wary, uncertain voice. “No, he isn’t. Why? What’s going on?”

            Eyes fluttering shut, Eddie inhales a sharp breath and tells him, “I haven’t seen him all day. At first, I just- I thought he was sick or skipping or something, but Went just called me and he isn’t home, either. I… I don’t want to say it, but… I have a really, _really_ bad feeling about this, Mike.”

 

 

 

 

            After a full twenty-four hours with no sign of Richie, Went and Maggie go to the police while Mike and Eddie call the losers to alert them of the situation. All of them promise to talk to their parents and see how they can help, but Beverly is the only one who promises to be back in Derry as fast as she possibly can. “Fuck that, I’ll catch a fucking bus if I have to,” she says when Eddie asks about what her aunt will think about. “I can miss a week of classes if it means finding him.” Thankfully, Bev’s aunt is much more understanding and compassionate than her father was, and Beverly shows up on the Tozier’s front porch within twelve hours asking what she can do to help.

            At first, the police show a promising amount of interest in finding Richie. After the amount of kids that went missing in ’89, they became petrified over the idea that there’s a serial killer in Derry and quickly go on high alert upon hearing that another minor has disappeared. Eddie can’t count how many times he scours every inch of the town with Mike and Beverly by his side, often tripping in his haste and crying frustrated tears when they can’t find even the smallest hint as to where Richie could be. Everyone reassures him, though – even Went and Maggie hug him tight and promise that they’re going to find him. With all these people looking, how could they not?

            But then a week passes and Beverly has to go back to Portland before she gets in trouble with her school, and everything seems to go downhill from there. The police department, upon realizing that no one else has gone missing in the span of seven days, deems the town to be safe and settles on pasting up missing posters and establishing a curfew rather than continuing the search for Richie, much to the dismay of the Tozier’s and the losers. They don’t give up, however – whenever they possibly can, Mike and Eddie meet up go through every single centimeter of the barrens and the quarry, taking in every detail, looking again and again and again. October passes in a haze of doing schoolwork and shouting Richie’s name into the empty space until his voice is hoarse, to no avail each and every time.

            November isn’t much different for Eddie, but Went and Maggie do go on a little road trip to search the neighboring towns and nearby cities for Richie as well, showing his picture to the authorities and getting the word out there to better their chances in finding him. It’s not likely that Richie would have just up and left without saying anything to anyone, but they have to consider it a possibility. However, the idea of Richie running away without telling Eddie, without offering to bring Eddie along, doesn’t sit right. He knows that Richie wouldn’t have done that. He knows how much Richie despises being alone, and leaving like that would guarantee solitude. Still, Went and Maggie believe it’s worth pursuing. They’re willing to believe anything if it means they may figure out where Richie is.

            Thanksgiving is a sad, quiet day.

            The past few years, Eddie’s spent Thanksgiving at the Tozier’s house, no matter how much his mother cries about it. This year is no different, but it’s not the same, either, sitting at the table with Maggie and Went across from him, the chair where Richie usually sits nothing but a vacant space. He can’t eat much, winds up pushing his food around with his fork and wondering why things are like this now. Wonders if Richie is having a good Thanksgiving, too, wherever he may be. And then, without much warning, he starts to weep, a steady trickle of tears rolling down his cheeks as his lower lip trembles. Maggie is the first to notice and, a much better mother to him than his own has ever been, immediately rounds the table and pulls him into a warm embrace. While he may be an adult now, he feels reduced to a childish state of anguish in her arms, burying his face into her shoulder and letting out uncontrollable sobs, hiccups rough and painful, breathing heavy and stuttering in his chest. He doesn’t hear or see Went move, but he feels when Went places a gentle, comforting hand on his shoulder, and it isn’t much, but Richie came from these two people – he is a mixture of Wentworth’s eyes and Maggie’s smile; of Wentworth’s passion and Maggie’s wit; of Wentworth’s humor and Maggie’s compassion – and while this is not the same as receiving comfort from Richie himself, it almost feels like enough.

            Almost.

            After that, the days blink by, minutes and hours blending together as Eddie floats through the weeks until winter break arrives. Only then does he feel revived, because the losers had planned on spending break together before – it was going to be a collective Christmas/Birthday celebration, since they couldn’t spend each of their individual eighteenth birthdays together. Instead of throwing some kind of party, however, the six of them spend every waking moment actively searching for Richie, even going into the sewers for the first time since they were thirteen just to make sure this isn’t a repeat of before. When they aren’t looking for Richie, they’re piled together, either in Richie’s bedroom or Mike’s living room, trying to brainstorm ideas on where Richie could have gone if he left voluntarily, or what the circumstances must have been if he were taken – how, who, when, where, why, and various other variables that give them headaches to ponder over.

            On actual Christmas day, they don’t go anywhere. They want to, more than words can say, but Ben points out that Richie would be upset if he found out they spent a holiday looking for him rather than trying to enjoy it. So, albeit reluctant, they huddle together in the vacant barn on Mike’s farm and listen to Christmas music, passing around their gifts for each other and stacking their presents for Richie in the middle of them all. It’s as they’re looking at the pile that Stan really loses it.

            He only laughs at first, a little bubble of a sound that sounds more pitiful than humorous, and when everyone looks at him on confusion, he just giggles out, “We haven’t all been together since we were fifteen.” The words are heavy but his tone is amused, in a hysterical sort of way, like he can’t quite believe what he’s saying. Beverly reaches over, rests her hand on his knee, while the rest of them share wary, uncertain looks.

            Eddie swallows thickly and looks down at the paper in his hands, one of the missing posters of Richie that he found resting in the snow on his walk to Mike’s place. He doesn’t know what compelled him to grab it, he has the damn things memorized by now after seeing so many of them stapled up around town the past few months. Perhaps it was just the need to have Richie with them in some form. Had he thought of it beforehand, he would have brought a few of his polaroid’s of Richie with him, but it hadn’t crossed his mind before he left his house, so this is all he has. He almost wishes he had nothing at all, though, because looking at this only brings back an image of a younger Richie, petrified and pale within the walls of the house on Neibolt, holding a poster just like this, only the picture had been more youthful. Stomach churning, he suddenly realizes that what had been Richie’s greatest fear has now come true.

            “All seven of us, I mean,” Stan adds, sounding a little drunk, a lot delirious. “Richie, he- he was always on our asses about that. He’s the one who insisted we had to meet up as soon as possible. All of us, not some of us. I can’t tell you how many times he started crying while on the phone with me because he just wanted us to be together again, even if it was just for a day, and I always told him, you know? I told him that we’d find a way to make it work when we could. I never put my foot down and said I was flying back for a weekend. I never tried because I thought that we had our whole lives to be together after graduating. And- and here we are, you know? Everyone but Richie. All of us except for the one who has been begging for us to get together for _years._ How is that- how is that fair?”

            And then Stan starts to cry.

            Eddie cannot attempt to explain how many tears he has shed since Richie’s disappearance, but it seems as though he’ll never run out, because he’s already a snotty mess by the time Stan breaks. Without hesitation, Eddie pushes himself to his knees, shuffles over, and collapses against Stan to hug him close, their arms winding around each other and their sobs mingling together. “It isn’t _fair,”_ Stan wails, helpless and heartbroken, his voice strained and wobbly. “It’s not _fucking fair!”_

            “I know,” Eddie tells him, words thick and heart aching. “Fuck, _I know, Stan._ I know.”

            They huddle together, the six of them, and there’s a space where Richie should be, a gap that can’t be filled. It’s still warm and comfortable and nice, though. It helps.

            But it isn’t the same.

 

 

 

 

[June, 1994]

 

            In sixth grade, Eddie pictured his high school graduation to be like this:

            The sun would be out, not a single cloud in the sky, but it wouldn’t be so hot that he’d end up a sweaty mess underneath his cap and gown. His mother would be much better than before, the mother he always wanted, and she’d be so proud of him, just as proud and joyful as the Tozier’s, the Denbrough’s and the Uris’s. She’d even go with them out to dinner before the ceremony, where he would be sitting next to his three best friends and all of their parents would grin at them from across the table and let them have whatever they wanted for desert, no matter how sugary and sweet it may be. The celebration itself would be held outside, where he could tilt his head back and feel the sun on his face, a comforting warmth shining down on him, illuminating an amazing day. When Bill, Richie and Stan were called on stage to get their diplomas, Eddie would scream so loud his throat would ache, and they would do the same for him. That night, they’d have a sleepover and celebrate their newfound freedom.

            As he got older, however, that idea began to shift, becoming something more realistic and inclusive of the changes his life underwent. Instead of four of them, he envisioned seven, and the cheers would be louder, smiles wider, eyes filled with happy, proud tears. They would hug and go to the quarry after to spend hours and hours chatting the night away, gazing up at the stars and daydreaming about the futures they were about to start.

            Eddie’s graduation ends up being much, much different.

            His mother isn’t in the crowd, claiming that there’s too many people, too much potential for illness or injury. None of his friends are by his side, either graduating elsewhere or, in Richie’s case, still missing. When his name gets called, the only people that cheer are Mike, Wentworth and Maggie, and even they sound sad, the heaviness of Richie’s absence still a constant, unbearable weight on their shoulders. The principal reaches the last names starting with a T and no Tozier is mentioned.

            What is supposed to be an incredible day winds up feeling like a suffocating heaviness that fills his lungs and makes them ache. Went and Maggie take him and Mike out for dinner, but they don’t talk much other than basic conversation about colleges and future plans. Mike got his diploma, too, through the testing facility for homeschooled kids out in Bangor, but he isn’t leaving, choosing to stay in Derry and help out on his family’s farm. Eddie was accepted into NYU and will start there in the fall, though his mother has made it clear that she doesn’t want him to. When he goes to bed that night, cap and gown folded in a neat little stack in the corner of his room, he feels such an overwhelming vacancy in his own chest that he begins to cry.

            He has the entire summer, though. And he plans to use it.

 

 

 

 

            When Eddie slams the door shut, he can feel the way it rattles the entire house, can hear how it echoes down the street, and he’s too pissed off to give a single shit about it. Usually, he would at least wince at the volume and offer an apologetic look to anyone he can see that’s close enough to be bothered by the noise, and he almost feels bad by how much he doesn’t care right now. But right now is not like usual, because right now there is so much anger vibrating every single cell inside his body that he thinks he may spontaneously combust. And it’s painful, really, thinking about what’s got him so fucking furious in the first place. He never thought any of his friends would ever be capable of making him feel so betrayed. It isn’t him that they’re betraying, though.

            They’re betraying Richie.

            A mere twenty minutes ago, Eddie had sat down at his kitchen table and picked up the phone. He’d been excited at first, thinking that his idea was incredible and that it would take little to no convincing to get the others on board. With a little dance in place, he dialed Bill’s number first, figuring it’d be best to ask him since he lives the farthest away. His grin stayed in place the entire time, until Bill said, “I… I don’t know, Eddie. I mean, we’ve got to prepare for college and stuff, you know? I’m moving back to the US to get my English degree, and I need time to pack up my things and figure a lot of shit out. I just don’t think I can give up my whole summer for this.”

            “For this?” Eddie had repeated, incredulous and offended. “You mean for _Richie_. You’re not willing to give up your summer to look for _Richie_. That’s what you’re saying right now.”

            “That’s n-not what—”

            Eddie simply scoffed and ended the call. With a little bit more aggression, he called Ben, and he still did not get the reaction he had been hoping for. Different to Bill, though, Ben sounded more upset about it, telling Eddie, “I can’t spend my money on just going back to Derry. If I had enough to swing it, I would in a heartbeat, but I don’t. I’m sorry.” Eddie had still ended that call abruptly, but he didn’t cut Ben off mid-sentence when he did it, and his chest ached a little as he dialed the next number.

            When Beverly picked up the phone and he explained to you what he wanted to do, she simply hummed. “It’s a good idea,” she said. “I just don’t know if we should. Like… I think we need to start moving on, Eddie. Or at least try to. It’s been eight months, you know? I just don’t think it’s healthy to be spending every single minute wanting to—”

            And, just like with Bill, Eddie hung up and called the next person.

            “I’ll be there,” Stan had instantly said, no hesitation or uncertainty in his voice. “I don’t care how, I’ll figure it out. Just give me a couple days.” Eddie was so relieved he almost cried, but all he did was thank him and end the call in order to dial the last number.

            For the first week of Summer, Mike has been in southern Maine, visiting a distant Aunt with his parents. Eddie would have just gone to his house to ask him if he were in Derry, but he won’t be back until sometime tomorrow night. So, he pulls out the piece of paper Mike write the necessary phone number down on, and he calls. The phone rings for a good minute. Mike does not pick up, so Eddie leaves a message on the machine telling him to call Stan and ask him about what Eddie’s plan is. Then, feeling more confused and upset than he thought he would, he put the phone down and he decided to leave.

            And now he is here.

            It’s fairly sunny out as he practically paces down the road, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. People he brushes past give him wary looks as he goes by, clearly able to see the way his features are scrunched up with frustration. He feels like an entire hurricane is brewing within his chest, a swirl of anger and bewilderment and overall hopelessness. All he wants is for them to get together and spend their summer looking for Richie, is that really so difficult for them to agree to? He thought all of them would be like Stan, no hesitation and just as willing to use their time trying to find a member of their own little family. It just… maybe it isn’t fair, but when Georgie went missing, they let Bill drag him across town every single day, looking over and over and over again in the same exact places, and they never complained or backed out of it once. Eddie remembers how much he got chewed out by his mom for coming home with dirt on his knees and scrapes on his palms from wading through grass and tripping on tree roots. It had been worth it, though, because he knew they were doing something good, trying to find someone who deserved to be found. Just like Richie, who deserves to be found, not forgotten.

            And Eddie will fucking find him, no matter what it takes. Even if most of his friends have apparently either given up or have bigger priorities. Eddie doesn’t understand how anything could be more important than finding Richie, but if that’s how they feel, then what fucking ever.

            He doesn’t do anything after leaving, mostly just walking down the sidewalk and taking the scenic route home. There’s no point in it, but he has so much pent up nervous energy that it feels necessary, if only just to calm down a bit. By the time he makes it back around to his house, his chest feels a lot looser, and he’s still a little frustrated, but he feels a lot better overall. Ready to clear his head and come up with a proper game plan for the summer – where to look, how to do it, things like that. He’s already starting to brainstorm a bit as he pushes open the door, but his mother is in front of him before he can make it down the hall to get to his room, looking at him with a sour expression and an unturned nose. “The phone has been ringing since you left,” she states, tone laced with disapproval. “Tell your friends to stop calling, please. It’s giving me a migraine.”

            “Yeah, sure,” he murmurs, frowning slightly as he shoulders past her. In the kitchen, he looks at the phone warily, then decides to wait and see if it will ring again rather than trying to guess who was calling him. To pass the time, he pulls down a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water and immediately gulping it down, letting the cool liquid soothe him. As he’s lowering the glass to set it on the counter, however, the phone begins to ring behind him, making him tense up. He considers leaving it, but then he sees his mother poke her head in the room and give him an expectant look, making him let out a long sigh and drag his feet to the table to answer the call.

            As soon as he presses it to his ear, he hears endless noise.

            “Finally, he answered,” he hears Mike breathe, sounding relieved. For a moment, Eddie is confused, but then more voices come in, and he realizes that this must be a group call with all six of them on the line, because he can hear all of them mixed in there. It’s loud and makes him flinch away from the sound, until Mike sighs loudly and states, “Guys! We agreed to talk about it, alright? Stop trying to talk over each other.”

            “What the hell is happening right now?” Eddie asks quietly, mostly to himself. He wonders if it would just be easier to hang up entirely, but this apparently has to be important, since they agreed years ago that having more than three people on the line is just too chaotic to handle. They wouldn’t have bothered with setting up this call if it wasn’t for a very specific reason.

            Thankfully, everyone seems to listen to Mike, as they all quiet down. After a moment, Stan tells him, “We need to figure out how we’re gonna do this. Looking for Richie over the summer, I mean.”

            “No, that’s not why we’re here,” Bill argues instantly, his voice more tired than anything else. “I _can’t,_ guys. Like, I would, but I can’t spend my summer driving around trying to find him when I have a million other things that I need to get done before starting classes in September. It’s not that I don’t want to, okay? I just—”

            “You just think that you can’t spare even a few weeks to help look for your best friend, who’s missing,” Stan interrupts with a scoff. “Yeah, okay, sure. Sounds real fucking solid, Denbrough.”

            Beverly makes a noise of distress, the sound kind of crackly from how hard it is to maintain the call while there’s so much distance and so many people on the line. “No, Bill has a point, guys. I mean, you’re right, too, Stan, we can all spare at least a couple weeks or something, but Bill’s still not wrong. We’re all getting ready to move on to college, and we need a good chunk of our summers to prepare for that. There’s moving, saving up for food, I need to talk to the people at work about rescheduling my hours… it’s just a lot, you know? Bill has a point. It’s not gonna be easy.”

            Unable to help it, Eddie snorts, leaning heavily against the table, momentarily considering sitting down entirely before deciding that he’d be too restless to stay still. “You know what’s not easy?” he questions, tightening his grip on the receiver until his knuckles turn white. “Being missing. Being wherever the fuck Richie is right now, because you all know just as well as me that he wouldn’t have voluntarily vanished like that. Wherever he is right now, he didn’t end up there because he wanted to.”

            “I know,” Bill mumbles sadly. “Fuck, I- I _know,_ okay? But I can’t just—”

            “You can’t what?” Eddie cuts in coldly. “Honestly, Bill, do you even hear yourself right now? I mean, seriously! And- And you, Beverly! Move on? We need to fucking _move on?_ Richie’s been gone for eight months and you’re already giving up on finding him? That’s _bullshit_ , Bev, and you _know_ it.”

            Ben speaks up then, his voice soft and strained, saying, “Guys, if we can make it work, we should keep looking for him. I mean… it’s _Richie._ We can’t not look for Richie. All I need is some time to save up money or something and I swear I’ll be there.”

            With a slow exhale, Eddie nods, though he knows no one can actually see him. “Thank you, Ben.”

            “We’ll all be there,” Mike adds sternly. “I’ll be back in town tomorrow and we can start coming up with a game plan. Ben, I’ll pay for you to fly out here if you need it, okay? And for you last three, I know you guys can get yourselves out here, so we’ll pick a day and just—”

            “No,” Bill states. “No, I can’t- you can’t just decide this for us, okay? I can’t do this. It’ll cost so much to fly out there so many times, and I just- I _can’t,_ okay? I can’t.”

            For at least thirty seconds, a heavy silence hanging there, a tension that Eddie can feel in his lungs and on his shoulders and in his head. He thinks they’re all waiting for him to respond, but even if they aren’t, he does it anyway, voice low and practically venomous. “You were there,” he hisses in the back of his throat, eyes squeezing shut as he tries to hold back angry tears. “You were fucking there, Bill. You saw his face when he found that poster in Neibolt. You calmed him down, Bill, and you’re fucking telling me that you can’t spare a few weeks to try and find him now that he’s actually missing?” He lets out a humorless laugh, lowering his head to hang between his shoulders, feeling as though his knees may just buckle beneath him. “Fine, then. Fuck you, don’t help us find him. I wouldn’t want you to put your energy into pretending to give a shit about him when you clearly fucking don’t.”

            He thinks he can hear Ben sniffle as Beverly lets out a quiet, sad noise. “Eddie…”

            “See you tomorrow, Mike,” Eddie murmurs, bringing up his free hand to rub stubbornly at the tears forming hot and angry in the corners of his eyes. Without waiting for a response, he pulls back the phone and ends the call.

 

 

 

 

            They plan to leave once Ben gets here.

            Eddie and Mike have been very thorough about this, spending every moment of the past week coming up with a game plan. They even went to the Tozier’s to ask for their input on any specific places they wanted to look but didn’t, helping them construct a solid list of certain cities in nearby states. They want to do a countrywide search, but they simply don’t have the money for that, limiting their options quite a bit, but Eddie is optimistic. He thinks that, by whatever circumstances that Richie vanished – and part of him still thinks it has something to do with that creature that lives under Derry, the one that he thinks they may not have killed, but a thorough search of the sewers left them empty handed on both evidence of It still being alive and of Richie being down there – he’s not far. Not within reach, but not far.

            He hopes so, anyway, and he thinks there is nothing wrong with having a little hope. No matter how much that little voice in the back of his mind tries to tell him that he’s being too childish by relying solely on hope to keep himself sane.

            As of now, Stan has already made it up to Derry and has been staying at the Tozier’s house, him and Eddie both crashing in Richie’s room and going through all of Richie’s belongings to try and find any clue for any desire to leave town without telling them. They haven’t heard from Beverly or Bill since the group phone call they had, and they don’t want to waste time waiting for them to show up if they won’t, which is why they’re going to be heading out once Ben gets here. According to his last phone call yesterday, his plane was supposed to land about two hours ago, and Maggie happily offered to go pick him up. For the past hour, they’re just been sitting in the Tozier’s living room with Wentworth, Stan doing most of the talking to catch Went up on how his life has been since moving to Georgia. It’s fairly pleasant, really, the four of them lounging around and chatting idly. Eddie finds his eyes catching on the empty space on the sofa next to him, and he thinks that there are lulls in the conversation that they would usually be filled by Richie, and that thought sits kind of heavy in the center of his chest.

            When Maggie comes back, she walks in smiling, and she walks in with Beverly Marsh right behind her. It gets hushed for a moment, until Ben comes in after them with a grin and says, “She called me and told me she changed her mind. She wants to keep looking for him.”

            “Good,” Mike replies, getting to his feet to envelope her in a hug. Eddie is wary for a moment, her words playing on repeat in his mind, words about how they need to move on, as if moving on is even possible until they know where Richie is, but then Beverly meets his gaze and he can see the sincerity in her eyes, deep and genuine and almost a little harsh. Softening, Eddie smiles at her and nods once, just to let her know that he’s not angry – that he is, perhaps, too tired and too focused on finding Richie to be angry. She ambles on over to him and practically throws herself in his lap to hug him close, murmuring apologies into their embrace.

            “Don’t be sorry,” he tells her quietly. “Just don’t give up on him like that. Okay?”

            Beverly nods quickly. “Never again. I promise.”

            Clearing her throat to get their attention, Maggie waits for everyone’s eyes to fall back to her. Only when she’s sure nobody is distracted, she backs up slowly and says, “I found another straggler at the airport.” Before anyone can ask what she means, though Ben and Beverly are already clearly aware of what is about to happen, she reaches over and pulls the front door open.

            Bill Denbrough steps in, looking timid and afraid, bags under his eyes and hair sticking out in random places. He looks like he just got off a flight from London, which Eddie can easily assume he obviously did, but that doesn’t make the lump in his throat go away.

            “We’ll leave you guys to it,” Maggie tells them softly, looking at Wentworth expectantly. He looks like he wants to complain, but only nods and gets to his feet. Before leaving the room, Maggie adds, “Let us know when you’re about to leave, okay?”

            And thus, six of the seven remain in the room, alone.

            Eddie feels like he’s going to suffocate on the tension that settles over the room, only getting thicker when Bill looks straight at him and swallows roughly, nervously. Slowly, looking afraid, he shuffles further into the room and cautiously lowers himself into the empty seat next to Eddie. Beverly silently climbs out of Eddie’s lap to give them a moment, joining Mike on the loveseat and watching the scene before her warily. For a moment, no one speaks, not until Bill looks down at his hands, clears his throat, and quietly says, “I remember, uh… I remember how scared he looked, Eddie. When he saw the poster, I- I was so sure he was going to pass out because of how he reacted. He was… he was shaking, and almost in tears, and… and I remember calming him down, and looking over, and seeing how you looked, too, because you were… you were pale, and covering your face, and you looked just as terrified as he did. And I… I thought to myself, you know? I thought that I wasn’t going to let anything happen. To you or to him. Because I didn’t like seeing you guys so scared. And now…”

            “Bill,” Eddie tries to interrupt, but his voice comes out in a croak, weak and quiet.

            “Let me finish,” Bill rushes out, now appearing urgent, like if he doesn’t get this out now then he never will. “I don’t- I don’t want to… it’s not about me, okay? It’s not. It’s about Richie, and finding out what happened to him, and finding out where he is. It’s not about me. But I- I gave myself a responsibility that day, you know? I basically swore to myself that I was never going to let any of us become someone who ends up on a poster like that. Then Bev was taken, and I didn’t waste time on going to get her, because I refused to let any of us disappear like that. But this…” Bill shakes his head, teary eyed and meek. “This is out of my hands. I couldn’t do anything to stop this from happening because I was in London, and now I don’t even know how to fix it because none of us have even the slightest clue where he could be. And I thought that… that maybe, if I wasn’t able to make it back here to look more, then maybe I wouldn’t feel so responsible for it, but then you told me… you reminded me that I was there in Neibolt, and I realize that- that not being here? That’s so much worse. And I’m- I’m sorry, for acting like there’s anything more important than finding him, because there isn’t. I’m just- I’m so fucking _scared,_ because I don’t know what I’m going to do if… if we can’t.”

            Unsure of what else to do, Eddie leans over, wrapping an arm around Bill’s shoulders and pull him in for a warm hug, one that Bill quickly reciprocates, hugging back gratefully. “You’re not responsible for whatever happened to him,” Eddie assures him softly, eyes closing and cheek resting against Bill’s hair. It’s a little uncomfortable, Bill having to hunch over in order to fit in Eddie’s hold, but neither of them mind. Tightening his arms around Bill, Eddie promises, “And we’re going to find him. I refuse not to. I’m never giving up on him, Bill. Even if… even if it isn’t now, or even if it isn’t for years, I… I _know,_ okay? I know he’s out there somewhere. I know we’re gonna get him back someday.”

            Bill nods, curling into Eddie’s touch for comfort, and the rest watch them with strained fondness. And Eddie means it, the fact that he knows they’re going to find Richie one day, but even with his complete certainty he can’t help but wonder if believing is enough. After all, he used to be sure that there was a God up there somewhere, but after facing the horrors in the sewers back when they were thirteen, he’d stopped finding comfort in a cross. Any God there may be would never make something as horrific as Pennywise, after all. But maybe, if there is a God looking out for them, that very God will be the one to bring Richie back to them. So maybe his belief isn’t enough, but maybe there’s no other choice – maybe he has to believe so hard that he gives the world no other option but to make his beliefs worthwhile. Maybe he has to make sure the world knows that he either gets Richie back or he makes the world wish he did. Maybe that has to be enough.

 

 

 

 

[March, 1997]

 

            It’s a seedy little bar in downtown New York, fairly empty and consisting solely of people who look like they’re drinking for every reason other than having fun. Eddie has never liked places like this, though it’s not like he’s had a whole lot of experience with them in the first place. For the most part, his drinking experience consists of sipping from a bottle of stolen wine on the floor of Beverly’s dorm room, usually on nights where the two of them are both a little too lost in their heads and just need to lean against each other in silence. Sure, there was the night of his twenty-first birthday, when Beverly, Stan and Patty managed to get some fake ID’s and convinced him to visit a club since he was of legal age. That night ended with him dragging them back to the NYU dorms and having to clean up after them when they were hurling their guts out the following morning, though, so he’s not sure that really counts. He’d barely gotten a drop to drink that night. But this is different, because this is not his twenty-first birthday.

            No, this is Richie’s twenty-first birthday, and the only way he’ll be able to survive the night is if he’s absolutely, mind-numbingly drunk.

            This day has been the hardest, the past few years. Celebrating the birthday of someone who is missing is more painful than not, but it still feels necessary. For Richie’s eighteenth birthday, he bought a cake that him, Beverly and Stan ate in a relative quiet. Richie’s nineteenth and twentieth birthdays have been the same, though Patty, Stan’s girlfriend, had joined them last year. Every year, though, they’ve wishes that the other losers were with them.

            Mike stuck to his word and is still living back in Derry, while Ben and Bill went farther west for college. Ben isn’t too far, living in Boston and studying architecture, but Bill is all the way in Washington to get a degree in English. They’re still not sure why he chose UW for college, seeing as there are many others in the country who offer much better English programs, but he insists that’s where he wants to be and they support him. Still, the three of them are the only ones in New York, and while Boston and Derry aren’t too far away, Seattle certainly is. Eddie supposes his should consider himself lucky to have been able to spend the past three years of college with two of his best friends by his side, and even Patty, though she isn’t quite one of them yet, has been a delight. But this year, he just needs to be alone. He needs to spend tonight by himself, and he needs to not be able to think straight.

            Because he imagined college to be very different from this, and he imagined that Richie’s birthdays would be celebrated with Richie beside him, music blasting and smiles wide. Birthdays were fun, before all of this went down. In fact, birthdays were the best. They were something Eddie looked forward. Not even his own, but all of the losers. Any chance to celebrate.

            And this is a doozy of a day, yes it is, because this is an anniversary of sorts. Four years ago today, Eddie kissed Richie, quick and sweet, before they sat on the kitchen floor and ate cupcakes until two in the morning, when they finally gave in and went to bed. Eddie’s still not even sure what compelled him to do it, but he can easily recall the fact that it’d been on his mind for weeks beforehand, thanks to Richie constantly complaining to him about how he was about to be seventeen-year-old who was a virgin by every single definition of the word. Sure, Eddie brushed his whining off every time, often rolled his eyes and quite literally shoved Richie away from him while telling him to shut up, but the idea had stuck. And when it struck midnight and Richie turned to him with sparkly eyes and a wide grin, Eddie couldn’t help it. Before he even knew what he was doing, the kiss was already over, and they were tiptoeing to the kitchen with red cheeks and giddy smiles.

            They never brought it up after that, Eddie knows, but he also knows that something had changed. It had shifted, altered, becoming something slightly different from what it was before. Eddie felt his skin burn wherever Richie touched him, and he saw Richie lose track of his words in the middle of sentences as he looked at Eddie. He could tell that something wonderful was developing between them, and he felt as though they had all the time in the world, so he didn’t bother to rush it. There was no need, he thought, to try and make a beautiful thing move faster than it had to.

            But man, does he regret that. Does he wish more than anything that he had taken that risk to move things a little faster. Does he wish that Richie were here, not lost wherever he is. He wants to know where they would be now, if Richie were here. If Richie would have stated on the east coast for college or headed over west. If Richie would be his best friend or if he’d be more.

            “What can I get for you?” the bartender asks, leaning against the counter and looking at Eddie from across the bar with a wide-eyed, expectant expression. Eddie looks at her, but does not see her.

            “Strongest thing you have,” he answers, pulling bills out of his wallet and tossing them down. “Whatever that will get me, and a lot of it.”

            The bartender lets out a little laugh, picking up the cash and adding the bills up in her head as she muses, “Sounds like you’re fixing for a hangover in the morning. You sure you want the strong stuff?”

            And Eddie knows it’s a valid question, but he doesn’t want questions right now. He wants to drink until this constant feeling in his chest that’s been there since the first of October in 1993 melts away. He wants to drink until he’s forgotten his own name, where he is, who he is, and why he’s always overwhelmed with a dreadful sense of horrifying agony. He wants to stop feeling for a night, if that’s even possible. So he meets the bartender’s gaze head on, his own eyes probably reflecting his anguish, and he says, “I’m fucking positive.”

            No more questions are asked after that, and suddenly he’s got a tall glass of something pungent in his hand. He isn’t sure what it is, nor does he bother to ask. He only offers a single nod of gratitude to the bartender and brings the glass to his lips, allowing the liquid to burn down his throat as he tips his head back and starts to gulp the contents down. If he weren’t so desperate for the drink to hit, he would have withdrawn the glass to cough, but he pushes through the urge and squeezes his eyes shut, waiting until all of it is gone before setting it back down. There are tears in his eyes from how strong it is, and he can already feel the heat of the alcohol in the pit of his stomach, waiting to spread throughout his body and cloud his brain. The bartender is looking at him in shock, concern and mild bewilderment. In a tone that seems forcefully light, she asks, “So, what are you drinking for tonight, sir? Celebrating, I hope?”

            “Something like that,” Eddie murmurs, slumping his shoulders and resting his elbows on the counter in order to prop his chin in one of his palms. He considers asking for a refill, but chooses that he should wait until his first drink kicks in before deciding. Getting drunk is what he wants, yes, but alcohol poisoning is not on his list of things to do tonight. When the bartender hovers by him for longer, looking unsure of whether or not she should leave him alone, he tells her, “The love of my life turns twenty-one today. That’s why I’m drinking.”

            Perking up, she nods and offer a slight smile. “That’s exciting! Will she be meeting you here?”

            Eddie shakes his head slowly, gut twisting. “I wish,” he answers quietly, “but he’s been missing for almost four years. No clue where he is, or if he’s even… y’know.”

            “Oh.” The bartender hesitates, smile falling. She looks at him a long moment, then tells him, “I’m… I’m sorry for asking.”

            With a shrug, Eddie says, “Doesn’t matter, I guess,” and then lowers his head to rest it in the crook of his elbow, eyes closing once again. He feels her eyes on him a minute longer, and then he hears her walk away to attend to another customer. One that isn’t so obviously sad, Eddie supposes. One that won’t make her feel heavy, like he feels. He wonders if he should apologize to her for even telling her that, for placing the weight of something tragic on her shoulder, even if only for a moment, but then he decides that he doesn’t want to talk to a single other person for the rest of the night. Unless Richie himself walks through the door, Eddie will not utter a single word. There’s no one else he wants to talk to.

            The drink is definitely strong, Eddie finds out quickly. Once it really kicks in, he finds himself feeling a little wobbly in his seat, eyes unfocused and thoughts fuzzy. It’s what he wanted, but it’s not as relieving as he thought it would be, this feeling of not really being there. Even when he’s plastered, he can feel the empty space by his side where Richie is supposed to be.

            And he doesn’t remember it the following morning, but when he leaves the bar at one in the morning, a few more shots added to his system for extra measure, he finds himself looking in the shadows, expecting Richie to appear by his side and walk him home.

 

 

 

 

[December, 2001]

 

            Bill met Audra during his final year of college.

            Eddie remembers getting that call, the one where Bill spoke fast and stumbled over his words, sounding very similar to how he did when he was thirteen and still had a stutter. It had been difficult to understand what he was trying to tell him, but Eddie eventually got the gist – there was a girl, a very pretty girl, and he was already smitten. The process from Bill realizing his crush on her to them actually getting together was a long, agonizing one, the exact opposite of Stan and Patty, who had met at freshman orientation at NYU and started dating within the week. Eddie didn’t get to meet Audra until he flew out to Seattle for Bill’s graduation, and she seemed wonderful on the spot, easily fitting in with their strange dynamic and never questioning the fact that the losers are closer than most friend groups are. Eddie has thought right from the start that Richie would love Audra and Patty, would adore their senses of humors and how they build on to the group. Whenever he thinks of this, he feels a pang in the very center of his chest, where his heart thuds painfully day in and day out.

            They know about Richie, though. He made sure of that. Patty learned about Richie through Stan, knew about him from the very start, but Audra never heard his name until Eddie brought him up. And Eddie gets it, really – he understands why Bill is so wary to bring Richie up, understands that Bill is still struggling with blaming himself, but it still ached when he mentioned Richie’s name and saw the confusion on Audra’s face. Upon Bill’s guilty look, Eddie decided to drop it for the time being, but Audra came up to him later that same night and asked him about who Richie was, and thus she learned the truth.

            Based on every story of Richie that Eddie has told Audra, she’s decided that he would be her favorite of Bill’s friends. She acts as though Richie isn’t missing, but is merely someone who lives far from here and will move back one day, often saying that she can’t wait to meet Richie and get to know him herself. At first, it had been painful to hear, because the losers are sure that Richie’s return is merely wishful thinking by now (Eddie refuses to lose hope, but hope is hard to hold on to when there’s nothing to help you keep your grip), but after some time, it began to be comforting.

            And today, on Bill and Audra’s wedding day, that is no different.

            It’s a beautiful scene, Eddie thinks. The two of them went for a more simplistic theme, and it suits them well, the beige walls with the white accents. Gentle music plays from speakers nestled into the corners of the room, and on the floor, they dance. At first, it’s just the newlyweds, Bill grinning at Audra so wide and joyful that Eddie can feel the love radiating off of them, but then Beverly pulls Ben over to dance, and soon after that, Mike goes, one hand holding onto Stan’s elbow and the other holding Patty’s hand. For a little bit, Eddie joins them, spinning around and laughing giddily, but he finds himself drifting away as time goes on, both physically and mentally. By the time the sun sets, he’s huddled against the wall, arms wrapped around his own torso in an almost defensive manner, and he watches his friend as they dance. Seven of them, he realizes – the five losers, and the two girls that have been introduced to them through romantic relationships. Seven, like the lucky seven, only Eddie is standing here, and Richie is still no where to be seen, and it’s not the same at all. In fact, it is vastly different, stiflingly so, and Eddie can feel his stomach churning in discomfort at the very realization.

            At some point, however, Audra makes her way from the group and winds up by his side, a simple and quiet presence. “He’d like it,” she says in a way that makes her sound sure. Eddie doesn’t need to ask who she’s talking about, especially when she glances at him, smile soft, and asks, “He would like it, right? All of this. From what I’ve heard, he loves when you’re all together.”

            Eddie swallows the lump in his throat, gaze trailing up the wall until his eyes are trained on the chandelier dangling elegantly from the ceiling. After a moment of steady breathing, Eddie tells her, “Actually, he’d love it. Especially the music. You two have similar taste.”

            “That’s what Bill says,” Audra grins, looking and sounding pleased. She scans over the crowd of people, a mixture of Bill’s family and her own, and she states, “When I meet him, I want to show him my records. I have a lot, you know? He can take whatever he likes. I’ll even buy him a record player, if he doesn’t already have one. Actually—”

            “Why do you do that?”

            Audra stops at that, her happy-go-lucky features melting into something more vulnerable. She looks at him, watches as Eddie squeezes his eyes shut and digs his nails into his palms, a crease between his brows and a tremble in his lower lip. Though she clearly know what he’s talking about, Audra asks him, “Why do I do what, Eddie?”

            Breath stuttering slightly in his chest, Eddie lifts a single shoulder in a half-shrug, quietly answering, “Talking about him like that. Like he’s… like he’s not missing. Like he’s gonna walk in the door at any minute. You sound so _sure,_ like… like I did, when he first disappeared.”

            “I _am_ sure,” Audra tells him simply, positively. “I just have a feeling that I’m supposed to know him, and I know that I’m going to someday. Maybe not for a long time, but… eventually. Whenever the world decides I’m ready to meet him and you’re ready to have him back.”

            “I’m ready _now,”_ Eddie says brokenly, voice cracking and eyes watering. He feels Audra place a warm hand on his shoulder and represses the urge to flinch away from it. “I’ve been ready since I was eighteen. I’ve been ready since the day he fucking vanished.”

            Wordlessly, Audra shuffles closer to him, presence open and kind. “The world doesn’t seem to think so,” she murmurs to him. “And the world is stupid, but if it doesn’t think we’re ready for him, then we have to wait until it does. Be patient, Eddie. You’ll see him again.”

            _You’ll see him again._

_Be patient, Eddie. You’ll see him again._

            It’s no different from what he’s been telling himself since 1993, but it feels somehow… _more,_ coming from Audra. More true, more meaningful, more heartfelt, more realistic. More everything, Eddie supposes. With a slow exhale, he nods, the action choppy and clumsy looking. “Okay.”

            “Okay.” Audra looks as though she wants to hug him, but opts not to. Instead, she steps away, back towards the dance floor, and looks back at him over her shoulder. “Do you want to come dance with us? It’ll take your mind off of things.”

            And he probably should, he knows. He should accept this offer, dance with his friends and loosen up a little, but he simply can’t. “Go,” he tells her, trying for a smile that’s wobbly at best. She looks wary, understandably so, but he refuses to make her worry any longer, not on a night so important to her. Forcing a more realistic grin, he rolls his eyes and nods towards their friends, insisting, “I’m fine, Audra. Promise. Now get back to your husband before he kills me for taking up all your time.”

            Relaxing, seemingly convinced, Audra nods and, after another small moment of hesitation, she turns back around and goes. Eddie watches the way Bill lights up when she returns to his side, and he watches Beverly twirl around Ben with a lovely grace, and he watches Mike’s conflicted gaze flickering back and forth between Stan and Patty, and he pictures this same scene, only different. He pictures Richie mingled in there with them, clad in a nice tux and throwing out the same jokes he always has. Eddie doesn’t think Richie could ever stop trying to make things funny, no matter how old he is, no matter what he may face. Eddie always admired that growing up, but he never really said anything about it. He feels he should have said something while he still could. He vows that he’ll say something if he ever has the chance. God, he hopes he gets the chance.

            If Richie were here now, attending this wedding with the rest of them, Eddie believes they would be here as dates. He believes that, back in ’93, they were headed somewhere great, and he can see it so clearly in his head, the life they’d be living now if things had been different. The progression, the transition, the subtle changes over time, until their first kiss on Richie’s seventeenth birthday became as common as breathing, until they were something bigger, something more. Eddie feels as though they wouldn’t have even had to talk about it, not officially – eventually, they would have just reached a point of mutual understanding, and perhaps that would have had a short discussion in order to assure one another that they were, in fact, on the same page, but it’d be short and simple. Becoming more than friends would have been natural and easy for them. It feels obvious, too, the two of them.

            Eddie would be on that dance floor right now, if Richie were here. They’d be attached at the hip, no doubt, but they’d also be mingling with their friends – Richie would twirl Beverly around gracelessly and wrap an arm around Mike’s shoulders as he sang along loudly to each and every song that came on. Eddie would tuck himself into Stan’s side and lead them in an overdramatic waltz while Patty laughed at them, Mike and Richie watching them in fond amusement. Eventually, they would dance solely with one another, Richie humming softly to the music and Eddie’s hand tucked neatly into the back pocket of Richie’s dress pants. They’d mold together, filling each other’s gaps like two halves of a puzzle that’s meant to e put together. At the end of the night, they’d leave together, return to their shared apartment downtown, and they’d fall asleep side by side, happy and warm and comfortable and in love. And maybe, before falling asleep, they’d dream about their own wedding, the one they’d hope to have one day. When it’s legal, when they’re ready, when the stars align and everything makes sense.

            Their wedding would be much smaller than this, Eddie knows. He has no family he’d want to invite, except for perhaps a few people from his father’s side that he hasn’t seen since he was a child, and Richie doesn’t really have close family outside of his parents. Maybe a grandmother, or a few cousins, or something like that. For the most part, though, the two of them would just have their friends, and the family they’ve made with them. Stan’s parents would be invited, of course, but whether or not they chose to come would depend on if they’ve become more open to gay couples since they lived in Derry. The Hanlon’s would come, and Beverly’s aunt, and Ben’s mother. Bill’s parents would be invited but likely wouldn’t actually attend, only sending some basic gift and a half-assed card. They’ve been a lot less loving since Georgie was torn out of their lives. Understandable, on some levels, but Eddie doesn’t think Bill will ever be the same after his teenage years being filled with parents who couldn’t care for him like they wanted because they couldn’t look at him without seeing the other child they lost.

            At Richie and Eddie’s wedding, they’d rent out a small place – a rec center, perhaps, or even tiny church, if they’d allow that. Any place that their small group could fill with music and laughter and love and noise. The cake would cost more than both of their suits combined, because they’ve both had a strong sweet tooth since the first grade, and they’d play songs from their childhood, songs easy to dance to, songs that make a heart flutter and a grin grow, songs—

            Songs like this one.

            Eddie doesn’t even notice that it’s playing, not at first. It’s just background noise, out of focus and quiet in comparison to his thoughts, but then his mind picks up on the familiarity of it. The way the instruments pay, rhythm kind to the ears and easy to sway along with. He barely has time to suck in a harsh breath before the lyrics start, gentle voice and lovely words belonging to Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. A very well loved song, this is. Eddie still remembers the vinyl that Richie gave him with this very song on it, one of the many that Richie surprised him with throughout high school. Because Eddie has never been super into music, sure, but his father loved music a lot, and listening to songs helps him feel connected to his dad in a strange way. Richie understood that, somehow.

            This is the song that Richie held his hand during, though. Eddie will never forget that. He doesn’t think he could, even if he wanted to. It is, perhaps, his second favorite memory of Richie, right behind the night they kissed, and right in front of the night Richie snuck him out to the quarry while the moon was still out and they swam until their lips turned blue.

            Without a thought, Eddie closes his eyes and listens.

 

_I love you, baby_

_And if it’s quite alright_

_I need you, baby_

_To warm the lonely nights_

_I love you, baby_

_Trust in me when I say_

 

            Eddie thinks the world stops around him, his surroundings becoming a blur of lights and color and every other sound fading into silence other than the song. He feels completely zoned out and entirely zoned in at the exact same time, and it’s disorienting, beyond so, but not necessarily in a bad way. Because he can feel his chest ache, but he can also picture the two of them now listening to this song, Eddie murmuring the lyrics in Richie’s ear as Richie ducks his head an uncomfortable amount in order to settle it to Eddie’s shoulder and press his grin to the skin of Eddie’s neck. They’d dance to this song, slow and in love and happy. Eddie wants more than anything for that to be more than a vision in his head.

 

_Oh, pretty baby_

_Don’t bring me down, I pray_

_Oh, pretty baby_

_Now that I’ve found you, stay_

_And let me love you, baby_

_Let me love you_

 

            His movements are sudden and choppy, the way his eyes open wide and his hands curl into fists at his sides. For a moment, he considers gathering himself to say a simple goodbye, but he knows he’ll be seeing everyone tomorrow morning, before Bill and Audra fly out for their honeymoon, so he doesn’t bother to stick around. Instead, he spins on his heel, heart thundering in his chest and a lump forming in his throat, and he leaves, the song becoming softer and softer behind him.

 

 

 

 

[August, 2005]

 

            When he hears of his mother’s passing, he does not react.

            “I’m so sorry for your loss,” the person on the phone says – a doctor, perhaps, or some other kind of Derry official that he doesn’t care much for. Their voice is strained and sympathetic, clearly expecting some kind of emotional outburst, whether it be denial or tears or simply just a raise in voice, but Eddie provides none of that. He provides nothing at all. A long moment passes before the voice on the other end of the line asks, “…Sir? Are you still there?”

            “Do I have to come back to Derry?” Eddie asks in return, voice clipped, gaze vacant as he stares at the wall. His apartment is nice and new, a result of the recent business he started paying him well. It’s a simple thing, driving celebrities around like a fancy taxi, but it’s only meant to help him save up faster and move to the west coast. He’s been meaning to go to California for years now, partially to get away from here, partially because no one has thought to go all the way out there in search of Richie. And perhaps it’s a little bit ridiculous, planning to move across the country to look for someone who disappeared over ten years ago, but he feels as though he has no choice. He will never be able to stop looking until he knows where Richie is.

            But right now, he cannot focus on that. All he can focus on is the way the person breathes gently, a quiet exhale, and informs him, “Yes, unfortunately so. Sonia doesn’t have any other living relatives who are willing to come here, and most of her will is left to you anyway. It’d just be easier if you came home for a week or two to sort things out.

            He feels obligated to say, “Derry is not my home,” even though it is not at all necessary to the conversation. There’s a murmured apology in response that he does not acknowledge, eyes fluttering shut and fingers digging into his temple before dragging over to pinch the bridge of his nose. He does not want to go back to Derry. He does not care enough for his mother to put himself through that. But he does not say that, instead sighs a resigned sigh and asks, “When do I need to be there?”

            “As soon as possible.”

            Eddie considers this, his tongue heavy in his mouth, and says, “I’ll be there in two days.”

            Thankfully, upon ending to call and dialing Mike’s number, he is able to land himself a guest room in the Hanlon’s home, occupied only by Mike and his mother now, though Stan and Patty visit him at least twice a month. There is something brewing there, something that has been brewing since they were kids and Mike was head over heels for Stan and vice versa. Mike tries to apologize to Eddie in the way that everyone always does when a family member dies, being sorry for the life lost, but then he stops and lets out a slow breath. “I’m not sorry, actually,” he decides, tone gentle yet firm. “She was a shit mother and you deserved better. But if her death hurts you, then I’m sorry you’re in pain, and I’ll do whatever I can to make this easier for you.”

            “Can you settle her will for me?” Eddie questions, partially joking, and hearing Mike laugh lightly helps to ease the tension in his shoulders. More seriously, he suggests, “Actually, if you could call the others… I want them to know, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore than I have to.”

            “Of course,” Mike agrees instantly, warmly. “I’ll call them right now. Actually, Patty and Stan are supposed to fly in tomorrow morning, so they’ll be here when you get here. It’s not everyone, and it might not be enough, but at least you’ll have three of us here with you. Maybe that will help.”

            Although Eddie knows nothing will ever be quite as helpful as having Richie will him – after all, it was Richie who comforted him when they were in third grade and his father died, hugging him tight at the edge of the playground and letting him cry until recess was over – he is grateful for his friends. “Thank you, Mike,” he says, and then he hangs up in order to set up plans for getting back to Derry.

            The good news is that obtaining a car is an easy task, as he has his own personal vehicle as well as access to the ones he has purchased for his business thus far. He chooses to use his own, as it is likely faster than the others and feels a lot more comfortable and familiar, the seats a little worn in rather than brand new and uncomfortably stiff. It doesn’t take very long before he has a bag packed, tossed in the back seat as he puts the key in the ignition and turns it until the sound of the engine roaring to life fills his ears. The sun is already gone, the clock reading nine in the evening, but he isn’t tired. He feels restless and dazed, like he’s existing on muscle memory or merely dreaming in some sense. It’s like he’s not even looking at the road he’s driving on, and it feels as though he’s already out of the city by the time he merely blinks. Time feels slow and groggy and yet it’s already midnight before he even realizes that time has gone by.

            He’s not going to miss his mother. That much is obvious. Hell, he hasn’t even seen her since he went down to Derry to spend Thanksgiving with the Tozier’s last year and she came knocking on their door, insisting that he needed to be spending the holidays with his mother and not with them. After telling her off, Went and Maggie actually having to pull him back into the house before he said anything he might regret, she left the premises and hasn’t tried contacting him since. She may have tried to see him during Christmas, but Maggie and Went came over to New York with Mike to spend a week with him rather than him going back there, something he is still grateful for. His other has never been his mother, not truly – she made him afraid of life, told him he was weak and fragile and covered him in a shrouded blanket of judgement. He _hated_ himself for the longest time because of her, because he still needed his inhaler to breathe sometimes, even though he never had asthma; because taking pills still offer a sense of relief to this day, even if it’s just a couple Advil meant to help with a headache or something of the sorts. Never has he wishes death upon her, but he’s not sad that she’s gone.

            But with her goes an odd, twisted kind of comfort, because it was always familiar, being under her control. Not in a good way, not even in a content way, but in a way that made him feel safe. Sure, with her he’d be locked in his room and hidden from the world, but he’d never be hurt. There are days, even now, when he scrapes the palms of his hand or trips and skins his knees, and his first thought is that it never would have happened if he never rebelled against his mother after finding out the truth about his medication. It’s horrible and insane, he knows, wishing even on the most subconscious level that he had allowed her to continue to manipulate him, but it’s… it was comfortable, in a twisted kind of way.

            And Richie had helped him understand, after everything went down in the sewers that just because it was comfortable doesn’t mean it was right, and he had distanced himself from his mother, throwing his medication out the window and leaving his inhaler at home. Because Eddie had wanted that comfortable feeling back after the things they faced, the horrors they saw. But comfort wasn’t just with his mother. It was with his friends, too.

            Only now his friends are spread across the country, Ben working for an architecture firm in Boston that Beverly used her business degree to help build. The two of them run that place, the bosses, working side by side and hand in hand. Stan went back down to Georgie with Patty, but they’ve both been expressing interest in moving back up north – they haven’t specified where, but if their visits to Mike are any indication, he thinks their intentions are obvious. Bill and Audra have been various places, both of their jobs allowing them to move around whenever. They were in New York for a while, then went back to Seattle, where they met, and currently reside in L.A. The two of them have actually been keeping an eye out for available and affordable apartments for Eddie, for when he’s ready to make the cross-country move. And he still wants that, wants to find comfort in the ones he loves, but it’s so much harder when they’re so far away, when he the most he can do is pick up a phone and call them a few times a week.

            Maybe that is why he feels so out of it, not really there, as he pulls into the parking lot of some cheap looking motel. He could drive all night and get to Derry by sunrise, but there’s an ache in his chest that makes him want to lay down for a while. Not even sleep, per say, but just rest, tucked under a blanket for a few hours and starting at a wall until his thoughts are no longer so muddled. It’s with this ache that he parks his car and ambles inside to book himself a room. The lady behind the desk smiles at him, tired but wide, clearly exhausted from the late hour but trying to seem presentable in front of a customer. Something about her is oddly familiar, in a way Eddie can’t place, especially when she looks behind him, at the door he just walked through, and asks, “It’s a little too late to be driving, isn’t it? Too dangerous, too, when it’s that dark out.”

            “That’s why I’m getting a room,” Eddie says, even though no, that is not at all why he stopped here. Still, he can see some kind of pleasant relief in the woman’s eyes, like she’s happy to hear of his choice to stay safe, and it’s so eerily warm in a way he doesn’t quite understand. Shaking his head briefly, he pulls out his wallet and looks up at her questioningly. “Um- how much is it? A room for the night?”

            “Prices are posted on the board,” she tells him, gesturing to a pinboard to her right with her hand. “Are you staying for one night, or two, Mister…?”

            Eddie blinks slowly, confused. He had just said he only wanted a room for the night, hadn’t he? Still, he pulls out his card and answers, “One night, please. And it’s Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak.”

            Sliding the card across the counter, Eddie offers a slight, polite smile. “Alright, Eddie Kaspbrak,” the woman murmurs, typing away at her computer and accepting the ward in order to input the billing information. “One night, for a room with one bed, I’m assuming—” she looks back to him for confirmation, to which he just nods once. Humming, she finishes putting in the information, printing out the receipt once it’s done and handing both that and the card back to Eddie. “You’re good to go,” she says chirpily, reaching over to pluck a key dangling from the rack. Extending them out to Eddie, she instructs, “You’re in room ten, up the stairs outside, first door on the left. Is there anything else you need?”

            Now that he’s gotten a room, he can feel a strong fatigue in his bones, and he knows that trying to keep driving would have been a mistake. Gratefully, he tells her, “That’s all. Thank you so much, Miss…?”

            “Myra,” the woman supplies simply, smile widening. “My name is Myra.”

 

 

 

 

[April, 2012]

 

            Eddie does not love Myra. He does not even like her. And he does not know why he married her.

            It’s been over four years now, since the day he felt compelled to ask her for her hand in marriage when he’d been planning on ending their relationship, if that’s even what this is. It feels more like a trap, or an excuse, or some half-assed attempt at normality. Because it isn’t normal, to be thirty-six and still feel head over heels in love with someone who went missing almost two decades ago, is it? By this point, he should just accept the fact that if Richie’s even alive, he’s not coming back. And maybe that is what Myra is for him – him trying to accept that he will not be with Richie.

            But god, _fuck,_ does he want to be with Richie.

            That’s how he survives this day in and day out, honestly. He doesn’t think about the fact that he’s married to a woman he can barely stand to be around, a woman he’s practically afraid of. He just thinks about what life could have been like if things were different. If things were better. If things were how they were supposed to be, with the losers – the lucky seven – growing up together, going through college together, discovering themselves and becoming who they’re destined to be. If Richie had never disappeared. Because he would not be married to Myra right now if Eddie were here, would not have gone crawling to the first person he found that reminded him remotely of his mother. No, he would have married Richie one day, he knows it. He _feels_ it, in the echo of his heartbeat.

            And perhaps he should not think about this, but Ben and Beverly just had their first child, Bill and Audra are trying for one, and Stan, Patty and Mike are already looking to adopt a third kid now that Patty’s popped out their second and no longer wants to go through the pregnancy process again. Seeing them, with their happy relationships, starting families and always looking so bright when he visits them (because they love him, he knows, but they do not love Myra), something about that hurts. Because he wants that. He wants true love and happy family and everything that entails. But he can’t have that, not with Myra – not with a woman who has started feeding him vitamins and crushing placebos into his food like he’s some sick dog even though his doctor has informed him time and time again that he is perfectly healthy. But Myra does not listen to doctors, just like his mother did not listen to doctors. Myra listens only to herself and forces Eddie into listening to her, too. It feels like an obligation, like he’s signed a contract or sold his soul and his only role in life now is to do what pleases her, to follow her guidelines and prevent her from crying every time he tries to disagree with anything she says.

            Being with Richie would not have been like this. It would have been late mornings and sunshine streaming through windows, the natural light being their alarm clock. Eddie is a business owner, he does not need to wake up early, though he tells Myra he does just so he has an excuse to get the hell out of the house whenever he possibly can. Richie and him would have breakfast bed, live life to the fullest and put their happiness first. They’d be in L.A., Eddie thinks, or some other Californian city, where the sun is bright and warm and pleasant. Over there, they’d get married, with that small wedding that Eddie had fantasized about during Bill and Audra’s reception. Over there, they’d adopt their first child, or perhaps find a surrogate – not Patty, because she loves kids but does not love the process, but perhaps Audra would not mind. Depending on when, Beverly would likely be on board, if it’s before or after her and Ben had a kid. Now it is too late to go to her, but a few years ago and she would be more than willing. No matter the how, though, Richie and him would have become fathers together, and they would been fucking amazing dads. Eddie is sure of it. He only wishes they were given the chance.

            Eddie knows this, understands that he should not be with Myra, but the only thing harder than staying with her is leaving her, because she does love him, in her own sick, horrible way. She cares for him deeply. He can tell by the way she looks at him, takes care of him. Perhaps she does not love him like a married couple should, but there is something in there, a part of her loves her in some kind of way. And it’s better for him to go, he knows, but he does not want to cause her pain. Even if staying with her is agony for him. Even if he wants nothing more than to flee.

            But staying gets harder and harder with every single passing day.

            He doesn’t want this. He never did.

            It doesn’t fully hit him how damaging this is to him for a very long time, though. He’s aware that he is not happy, aware that he does not want to stay in this relationship, but he is not aware of how truly deep rooted this pain is. He doesn’t realize it until one very specific night – the night that Mike, Patty and Stan finally bring home their adopted third child, and Mike calls him.

            “She’s kind of jittery right now,” Mike is telling him, his grin audible in his voice. “I mean, we knew she was going to be, because she’s only two and doesn’t fully understand what’s going on, but she loves Patty already and Stan got her to laugh earlier. I got it on video, if you want me to send it to you. Robin is kind of unsure about her so far, but I think it’s the same as when Debbie was born, you know? He’s not really sure how to feel about not getting as much attention because there’s another kid in the house, but once he realizes that he’s still going to be just as loved and this just means he’ll have another sibling to play with, I think he’ll warm up to her.”

            “It sounds like the Hanlon-Bloom-Uris house is thriving,” Eddie muses with a little laugh, tapping the fingers of his empty hand against the steering wheel of his car. He isn’t driving right now, doesn’t want to risk being pulled over. Instead, he’s parked on the corner of the block, his house down the street, just barely out of sight. If Myra were to look out the window, she would not be able to see him. This is where he often parks after work, just to avoid going home for a little bit longer. “Other than being jittery, how’s she liking the place? Are all the farm noises scaring her? I know you guys said something about how worried you were that she wouldn’t like all that sound all the time.”

            Sounding enthusiastic, Mike giddily answers, “She doesn’t seem to mind so far! Stan took her out earlier and showed her around, and he said she likes the animals, which is good. We’ll have to wait and see how she feels about it during bedtime, though. The animals used to keep Debs up for hours. Patty said that if Miranda’s the same way, we’re gonna have to start living off of caffeine again.”

            It’s pleasant talk, one that makes Eddie’s chest feel warm and tingly and nice, but then a cold shiver runs down his spine so suddenly that he can feel goosebumps all along his arms. He lets out a little, “Mhm,” just to keep the conversation going, but Mike knows him too well to let that slide.

            “What’s up, Eddie?” Mike asks him, tone softer, and it’s an invitation, not a demand. It’s an offer to share what’s on his mind, to lean on a friend. Eddie doesn’t even realize how badly he needs that until he feels tears burn hot and angry behind his eyes, his fingers wrapping around the steering wheel and clutching so tightly that his knuckles go white.

            “I’m not…” He isn’t sure how to say it, how to push the words past the thickness in his throat, his mouth feeling full of syrup and his head spinning. Squeezing his eyes shut, he lets out a long, slow breath, and he forces the tension out of him with it, the fear and the uncertainty and the anxiety and every other bad thing brewing uncomfortably within him, things that have been festering and festering for years now. Voice cracking, he inhales quick and sharp and admits, “I’m not _happy,_ Mike.”

            Sounding not even remotely surprised by this admission, Mike murmurs, “Oh, Eddie…”

            But Eddie blubbers on, a dam within him breaking, all of his anguish releasing in a flurry of words. “I want to be,” he says, lower lip trembling, tears slipping down his cheeks. “Fuck, Mikey, I- I want to be like you, and Stan, and Bev, and Ben, and Bill, and Audra, and Patty. I want- I want _love,_ Mike, _real_ love, not like- not like _this_. Not this- this stupid shit, avoiding going home and trying not to cry myself to sleep every night and- and dreaming about _him,_ Mike. I’m always dreaming about _him._ I want _him._ I don’t want _this,_ I don’t want _her._ I want—”

            “You want Richie,” Mike finishes knowingly, partially so Eddie knows he understands, partially to cut off Eddie’s messy slur of words and give him a chance to breathe. And hearing it stated out loud, so blatant and loud and right there, causes a horrible sob to rip out of Eddie’s throat. “It’s okay,” Mike tells him softly. “It’s okay, Eddie.”

            “Am I stupid?” Eddie asks, sniffling loudly, removing his free hand from the steering wheel and wiping his snotty tears away with his sweater sleeve. “I mean- I have to be a fucking idiot, right? He’s not coming back, not after all this time. There’s no way. But I can’t- I can’t move on from him, no matter how hard I try to. We were never even together! We kissed _once,_ but here I fucking am, married to some- some fucking woman that makes me feel like I can’t fucking breathe because every time I’m around her I have a fucking anxiety attack. I’m- I’m a dumbass, aren’t I? I’m a dumbass for still wanting him.”

            “No,” Mike assures him, and even that single word, spoken with such certainty and genuine care, is enough to help ease some of the tension from Eddie’s body. He slumps in his seat, tilts his head back to lean against the headrest, and listens intently to what Mike has to say. “You’re not an idiot, Eddie. You love him. There’s nothing wrong with that. And even if you don’t think so, some part of you still believes he’s going to come back. You have hope in there.”

            Eddie swallows the lump in his throat, nodding despite the fact that Mike can’t see him. “What do I do, Mike?” he questions helplessly. “I can’t keep living like this.”

            Simply, as if the answer is obvious, Mike tells him, “Then don’t. Leave Myra. She makes you miserable, Eddie. We’ve been trying to tell you that since you met her.”

            “But…” Eddie’s protests die on his tongue. What are his reasons not to? He doesn’t want to hurt Myra, sure, but he’s hurting so much more than she ever could just by staying with her. Divorce is expensive, but he’s got more than enough money to do it. He won’t have a place to stay, but he can afford a temporary apartment somewhere, can even afford going out to California like he had wanted to. Every reason he’s ever had for not doing this is easily disputable. He has no excuse. Making a decision, he nods again and breathes, “Okay.”

 

 

 

 

[October, 2016]

 

            Divorce is a long, agonizing process, as Eddie quickly learns. Especially when one half of the marriage is not very cooperative with, which Myra definitely was not. During every step of the process, she fought against it, begging the lawyers to not see it through, sobbing to Eddie about how it just wasn’t fair to her, leaving her like he was, without a proper reason. He tried explaining to her over and over again, tried to tell her that he just wasn’t happy with her, that he simply does not belong with her. At one point, he’d grown tired of her crying and bluntly told her that he’s gay and can’t be with a woman, and she tried to tell him that it was a problem that could be solved without ending their marriage. How Eddie managed to tolerate being around her, he no longer understands, but there’s still an uncomfortable twinge of guilt in the center of his chest, a part of him that still feels as though he owes her something – his heart, his life, he doesn’t know. He tries to ignore that guilt, burying it under common sense, under the fact that he knows he could not stay with her. Still, it likes to peak through occasionally, making him wonder if the divorce really was the right option.

            “Of course you made the right choice,” Bill assures him on the phone, scoffing as though Eddie’s just tried asking him if one plus one really equals two. “You were killing yourself being with you, Ed. I’m so fucking proud of you for leaving.”

            Which is a very nice sentiment to hear, but it doesn’t complete erase his worries. “I know you’re right,” he says with a sigh, holding his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he takes the dinner he ordered from out of the bag. “I just… I don’t know. I feel weird about it.”

            “Well, don’t,” Bill states simply. “You deserve better than her. You deserve—”

            _Richie_ goes unsaid, but Eddie still feels the implication in his bones.

            “You deserve someone who actually gives a shit about you instead of treating you like a child,” Bill finishes instead, though his tone has lost some of its heat after his near slip-up from before. Mentioning Richie is like mentioning an old wound these days, and it feels like a phantom ache of a bone long mended or a bruise that faded away years ago. Ever since Eddie told everyone about his decision to leave Myra two years ago, they’ve all been more careful around him, trying not to bring up Richie’s name, as though merely hearing it will send Eddie out of control. He thinks he understands why, and part of him is grateful, but it became old and frustrating after the first month. Before he can try and tell Bill not to treat him like he’s fragile, however, Bill clears his throat and changes the subject, asking, “So, how’s the place? Nicer than the last one I bet.”

            “It’s okay,” Eddie replies, a little reluctant to let the subject drop so easily. That’s the real reason Bill called him, however, to ask about his new apartment, so he decides to let it slide. “The last place was supposed to be shit, though. All of my money was going towards the divorce, so I could only afford that nasty studio apartment. Felt like a fucking rat up there, though, so this is a nice change.”

            Bill laughs at that, a loud bark of sound that makes Eddie snicker himself. There’s not much furniture set up in his new place quite yet, so he moves over to the window to sit on the sill, the idea of watching over the city while it eats actually quite pleasant. “Did you think about what Audra asked you?” Bill questions. “If it was too in your business, then I’m sorry, but we just thought that, you know, you wanted to move out here before you got with Myra, so you might want to do that again.”

            Humming lightly, Eddie sets comfortable in his seat, propping his box of takeout on his lap and reaching into the bag to pull out the plastic fork provided. “I thought about it,” he answers. As he’s withdrawing his hand from the bag, he freezes, the light glinting off of the ring on his finger. His wedding rings. He’s so used to wearing it that he has yet to take it off.

            “What do you think?” Bill goes on, unaware that Eddie’s focus has been placed somewhere else. After a moment of no answer, he tries again. “Eddie? What’d you think?”

            “I’m not sure yet,” Eddie murmurs, blinking slowly. He can’t take his eyes off of the ring. It feels itchy and uncomfortable now that he’s noticed it, like it no longer belongs there. Setting his food onto the floor carelessly, he gets to his feet and says, “Hey, uh- I’ll call you back later, okay? I have to do something really quick.” Then, without waiting for a response, he ends the call and shoves his phone into his pocket.

            He isn’t sure what he’s doing, but his body acts faster than his mind, and soon enough the ring has been pulled off his finger and the window has been opened. His apartment is on the sixth floor of the building, the street a long ways down, and he hesitates only a moment before extending his hand outside the window and letting the ring fall from his grip. Luckily, there appears to be no one on the sidewalk, so the ring falls in peace, undisturbed, until he can no longer see it other than the occasional glint from the sunlight shining down on it. And it’s odd, but it feels good, not having that weight on his hand. His chest feels lighter, looser. It feels easier to breathe. He no longer doubts if the divorce had been the right choice.

            In his pocket, his phone begins to vibrate with an incoming call. He doesn’t bother to look at the screen before withdrawing it from his pocket and answering it, bringing the device up to his ear. “Hello?”

            “Eddie,” Stan says, sounding relieved. _“Christ.”_

            For a moment, he panics, unsure of why Stan could possibly sound so terrified, but then he relaxes. He’s been expecting this call. They all have.

            Mike noticed a few months ago that things have been funny in Derry again. Funny like how it was when they were kids, when Georgie went missing. He’s been keeping them in the loop, wanting to look into it some more before deciding if it was what they thought it was. Signs have been pointing to the obvious, however – to the fact that It most likely isn’t dead, like they thought. To the fact that they’ll probably all have to go back to Derry and finish It off. Only six of them, though. Not the lucky seven.

            “It’s back?” Eddie guesses with a sigh, shoulders slumping. He doesn’t want to be right, but he knows he is. He had a feeling that something was up when Mike wouldn’t text him back yesterday.

            “No,” Stan tells him quickly, breathily, catching Eddie off guard. “I mean- _yes,_ but that’s not what I need to tell you. He, uh- Mike, he was going to call you, not me, but when he tried calling, it got- it got fucked up somehow, I don’t know how, but—”

            Eddie shakes his head, baffled. “But what, Stan? What’s going on?”

            “Someone else picked up the phone,” Stan rushes out, and it’s now that Eddie can detect the bewilderment in his voice, the awe, the fear, the happiness – all of it, a confusing concoction of so many emotions it makes Eddie feel dizzy. “Eddie, it- we don’t know how, or why, or- or _anything,_ really, but it was _him,_ Eddie. It was Richie.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter will be posted on halloween, and that is when everything will go doooooown!!


	3. without you, this is an empty world

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my laptop sucks and this kept getting longer and longer and wow
> 
> thank you to sara (richietoaster) for helping me with this fic so much!! unfortunately i took too long to write it and she had to go to work and couldn't beta this but she seriously did so much to help me with this fic i am so grateful hhhh
> 
> hope you like it!! happy halloween!!

[August, 1989]

_They are thirteen-years-old, and they are winning a fight they should not be able to win._

_It had known from the very start that these kids were going to pack a mean punch. That much had been evident in their sheer determination, in the way they quickly fell together and became powerful in a way that It has never seen before, but It had never thought, for even a fraction of a second, that there was a chance of It losing. It_ can’t _lose._ Especially _not to a group of children._

_Except these children are special, oh, It has become well aware of that. These children were chosen by that damn Turtle, chosen to be protected, chosen to harness the strength and energy that should not be possible for a mere human to withhold, let alone seven. If It could tear that Turtle limb from limb with It’s own teeth, It would, but that simply isn’t an option. The Turtle shall die when he is good and ready, not a moment too soon or a second too late. The sooner, It thinks, the better._

_For now, the Turtle lives on, and It has to sit here and try to convince these children to leave It be. And It tries, over and over again – It takes the form of all the things these kids fear most, manifests Itself into every heavy sense of dread and every lingering anxiety they may have, but still they soldier on. They’re determined, with fires in their hearts and steady hands and raised voices and It is getting weaker and weaker and weaker with each and every passing moment. It can’t lose, It_ refuses _to lose, not after all this time, after many millennia spent thriving off this world._

_But It gets the upper hand eventually, yes It does, when one of them loses focus, when someone steps too far, when It gets the chance. It grabs Denbrough by the neck and seizes him, holds him, promises that It will leave the rest of them alone so long as It can keep just one of them as a trophy for It’s victory, a final meal before sleeping again. It thinks the plea just might work, too, when no one moves, when they all just watch, when Stuttering Bill himself tells them to go. But alas, there’s too much love in their beating hearts, more than It could have anticipated, and—_

_And it’s Tozier, the Trashmouth, the one that’s the hardest to scare, that steps forward. He speaks, slow and quiet, and he grabs a bat, and he swings so hard that It sees stars. Oh, and how fitting that is, for the one to hurt It most be the one who takes nothing seriously – the one who has angered It the greatest, for it is Tozier that makes this the most difficult. It is Tozier that has a fear far too difficult to manifest. It tried, and It succeeded in a small way, made him weep over a sheet of paper that claimed him to have disappeared, but It has not done to him what It has done to the others. It has not found the proper way to make him feel fear the way It had accomplished with all of his friends._

_Barely alive, that’s how It escapes. Weak, bruised, bleeding, hardly able to maintain a steady heartbeat within It’s trembling form. If it weren’t for Tozier, It would have won, would have been able to overpower those kids and lived on strong for another couple decades before needing to feed again. Now, It must heal, must mend, must piece Itself back together and prepare for another battle far down the line, a battle that It will not be defeated in. But It wants them to suffer with It, to struggle until they meet again. And there are many ways to do that, to fulfil It’s twisted need to hurt them, but It is angry, furious, towards a specific member of their group. It could make them all forget each other, It could wipe their minds of any memory they have ever shared. Or…_

_Or, It could make Tozier’s greatest fear come true._

_Time is different for It, days feeling like minutes, months feeling like hours, years feeling like days. All It wants to do is sleep the pain away, but It has to summon the strength first, the power that is needed to do what It wants to do. It isn’t sure how long it has been since the kids got away, but eventually, It is ready, and with a satisfied rumble of noise that would be the equivalent of a content sigh if It were human, It fulfils It’s wish. With that done, It finally allows Itself to rest, knowing that those horrid kids will go through Hell and back while It is gone._

[October, 2016]

 

            Over the course of twenty three years, Richie imagined what it would be like to reunite with the people he loves in various different ways. At the beginning, he thought it would be energetic, him jumping into someone’s arms or someone jumping into his arms, overjoyed shouting of each other’s names, and maybe they’d be crying, but they’d be crying with grins on their faces. As he began to get older, however, he started to envision it differently – more mellow and soft, with warm hugs and whispered _I missed you_ ’s and _I love you_ ’s and tears trickling down splotchy cheeks. He’d sit in the front seat of whatever car he was using at that point and he’d dream about it until he was hunched over and crying. Then, somewhere around his thirtieth birthday, he stopped dreaming about it at all. He didn’t see the point in thinking about something that was never going to happen, he thought. But now…

            Now, he’s here. He’s in Mike Hanlon’s living room. And he can’t fucking talk.

            He wants to, more than anything, and it’s clear that he isn’t the only one. Mike is sitting next to him, a few feet of space between them, a result of Richie unintentionally flinching away from every attempt at physical contact. “Can you tell us what happened to you?” Mike asks, quiet and gentle and patient, though Richie can hear the mild hysterical distress in his voice.

            “Please,” Stan adds, crouched down in front of Richie, and Richie wants to grin because he was right. At least, partly. Stan and Mike are together, but they have a wife, too, a woman named Patty who had introduced herself to him briefly before leaving the three of them alone. But Richie can’t even bring himself to smile right now, let alone get to know this girl the two of them are with. He can only glance between Stan and Mike with wide eyes, afraid that, if he looks away, they’ll be gone when he looks back.

            “Richie,” Mike murmurs, and he reaches a hand over, hovers it above Richie’s knee, an attempt at a comforting gesture, but as soon as Richie can feel the brush of his fingertips against the fabric of his jeans, he moves away, sucking in a harsh breath and shaking his head once. And he doesn’t know why, doesn’t understand the odd, all consuming, overwhelming fear that washes over him whenever they try to touch him, but he can’t stop himself from pulling away. Mike sniffs, looking close to tears, and pulls his hand back reluctantly. Stan closes his eyes, features strained. And it’s so strange, seeing them like this, seeing them as _adults._ There’s clear remnants of who they were as kids, the slope of Stan’s nose the same and the shape of Mike’s face, and their eyes are the same color, only they look so heavy, so tired, a result of aging. Richie tried picturing what they would look like as they got older hundreds of times, but none of them were exactly right. Close, perhaps, and accurate, but not completely correct. Which is odd, because he thought he was never going to find out what they would look like now, yet here they are, right in front of him. Two of the six most important people he’s ever known and ever will know.

            Opening his eyes, Stan lets out a slow breath, looking briefly to Mike before meeting Richie’s gaze with a small smile. “The other’s are on their way,” he tells him simply, propping his elbow on his knee and cradling his chin in his palm. It’s eerily reminiscent of how he was back then, when he’d sit on the floor and lean against his knee, or rest against a table top. Richie wants to point this out, but cannot even bring himself to part his lips. It doesn’t matter too much, really, as Stan quickly continues with, “I called them while Mike went to pick you up. Bill’s the farthest, lives in L.A. right now, so he’ll probably get here last, but we don’t know that for sure. The point is, the rest of them should be here by tomorrow morning, if they’re all able to get on last minute flights. Except for Eddie. He’s in New York, so he’s probably already on his way here. Probably speeding, too, since he knows you’re here.”

            It isn’t a word that Richie gets out, no, but an involuntary rumble of a sound that vibrates in his chest and nearly echoes around the silent room. Even that is enough to make his unused vocal cords hurt, already sore from the very little conversation he forced himself to have when picking up the phone, but it still makes his lips part in genuine surprise. He hadn’t meant to make the noise, and judging by the way Stan and Mike both stare at him with wide eyes, it’s clear that they weren’t expecting to hear it after how silent he’s been up until now. They don’t make a bit deal out of it, though, only relaxing into small smiles and relieved eyes, like just that one sound is enough to ease them slightly. “He missed you, you know,” Mike murmurs quietly, almost timid. “We all did, but he… he took it hardest, when you went missing.”

            _Missing?_ Richie falters at that, confused, because he… he wasn’t missing. Everyone else was missing. Except, they’re all here, apparently – they grew up in a normal way, live real adult lives, while Richie was… also here, but not the same here as them. He was here, but elsewhere, apparently. It makes no sense. Nothing has made sense since he woke up that one morning when he was seventeen, though. Perhaps it would be best for him to focus on the here and now rather than the how and then. As in, try to choke out a few sentences, or break down this barrier that’s keeping him unresponsive and silent when he wants to tell them how much he loves them, how much he’s missed them. He wants more than anything to talk to them, to… to say something. But he can’t. He just blinks, lips twitching in the phantom motions of what could be a smile through squinted eyes and a tilted head. It’s barely even a reaction, he knows it, but it’s enough to urge them on, to make them keep talking to him.

            “We spent the entire summer after senior year driving around, looking for you,” Mike tells him.

            Stan scoffs, but in a fond way, and says, “Yeah, but only after arguing about it with Bill. I love that man to pieces, but jesus christ, he can be so unintentionally selfish sometimes.”

            “He had a good reason,” Mike dismisses with a wave of his hand. “I mean, I didn’t agree with it, and it pissed me off too, but I could see where he was coming from. Sort of. Kinda.” He pauses, shrugs, and concludes, “Doesn’t matter, ‘cause he came with us anyway. That’s the important part. And he was actually the one to bring up extending the search from a few weeks to the whole summer. He wanted to find you just as bad as we did, he was just scared.”

            “We were all scared,” Stan adds, a bit softer. Richie is helpless to do anything other than glance between them, just as he was before. And it’s kind of hazy, this scene, the three of them – it feels fuzzy around the edges, slightly blurred and a little bit off kilter, like a dream that’s getting ready to fade away and form into a different dream. But every time Richie blinks, they are there when he opens his eyes again, and he thinks that he is afraid, but he is also safe. He is not sure of what to do with that.

            Mike clears his throat then, drawing their attention, and smiles when Richie looks at him. With a look on his features, one that’s gentle and warm and surreal, he pats his own knee and gets to his feet, saying, “I don’t know where you’ve been or what happened, but you look like you haven’t had a real meal in months.” Richie would snort, if he could. More like years. A decade, maybe. He can’t remember the last time he bothered to make himself something proper. After the first few years, most proper food was spoiled, anyway – all he could choose from was canned shit and snacks that don’t mold over time. So he lifts his shoulders in a shrug, a very slight answer that is not much of an answer at all, but it’s enough for Mike to nod once and muse, “Thought so.” As he moves over, he brushes his hand against Stan’s shoulder, then quickly ducks down to press a kiss to his temple, staying hunched over when he asks, “Are you okay with me going to make some food really quick, then? We haven’t had dinner yet, either, and Patty said she’ll be back in an hour, so I should probably make sure there’s something ready. Plus, everyone else will probably start showing up throughout the night and they might be hungry when they get here.”

            Again, Richie shrugs slightly, feeling indifferent, because he does not see a flaw in that suggestion. At least, he does not see one until Mike grins at him and starts walking away, because the moment he steps foot into the hallway and starts to leave Richie’s sight, he feels his heart seize in his chest, throat closing, breath coming out of his slightly parted lips in a high pitched whistle. Perhaps the sound of blood rushing past his ears is a bit deafening, because he does not think his reaction is loud enough to draw a reaction, but Stan looks alarmed and Mike is instantly back by his side, both of their hands hovering by him, wanting to offer a comforting touch but knowing from their previous attempts that Richie cannot handle the physical contact quite yet. “What?” Stan asks, and Richie does not know what he looks like, but he knows he’s hyperventilating and he knows that Stan looks scared, so he assumes he does not look very good. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

            “Richie?” While Stan looks scared, Mike looks devastated. He’s scanning over Richie’s entire body, eyes wide but brows pinched together with a crease between them, fingers curling into his fists, clenching and unclenching while he fights the urge to rest his hands on Richie’s back or shoulder. “Are you- are you hurt, or something? I didn’t think- I mean, I didn’t see any injuries when I picked you up, but if you’re hurt, we can—”

            Shaking his head, Richie swallows roughly, lifting a trembling hand and then promptly dropping it. His thoughts feels quiet and muted, his mind cloudy and slow and the world disorienting around him. The way his chest heaves with each breath is almost painful, lungs aching, but he forces his eyes to focus, makes himself look at Mike, then at Stan, then Mike again, Stan again, back and forth, and he tells himself that they are there. Of course they are. How could he be here, listening to them, if they weren’t? But that answer is quiet terrifying in itself, and he tries to push it away, only it is persistent, annoying, hovering over him until his breathing is even but his mind is unfocused. Stan and Mike try to talk to them, he can hear their distant voices, but his gaze slides over the wall, not really seeing what he’s looking at, and he cannot hear what they attempt to say.

            What if this isn’t real?

            He doesn’t want to consider it, and he doesn’t. It just lingers there, covers his thoughts like a blanket, because he fears it could be true. But if this isn’t real, that doesn’t mean he can’t at least let himself enjoy it. Perhaps his mind has conjured up hallucinations of his friends, perhaps he is still sitting in his old bedroom and dreaming all of this right now. If he is, there is nothing he can do about it. So he calms down, albeit slowly, and he tunes back into reality, blinking a few times to clear his vision and waiting for the ringing in his ears to fade away, until he can see Mike and Stan again, and he can hear Stan murmur, “Here, just- write it down. Talk to us like this. Tell us you’re okay. Please.”

            Looking down, he finds that there is a pen resting against his thigh, an open notebook placed on the sofa cushion besides him. Stan is looking at him desperately, Mike’s eyes shimmering with hope, and it’s such a simple idea, one that he’s kind of shocked hadn’t come into play the second they realize he wouldn’t utter a word, but he still picks them up gingerly. Uncapping the pen with somewhat shaky hands, he poises it over the page for a short moment, considering what it is he wants to write – his confusion, his fear, his uncertainty, his worries – before deciding on something simple. Something that will help avoid sending him into a spiral of panic like that again.

            In choppy, uneven scrawl, he writes down, _I don’t want either of you to leave me._

            Mike reads it first, looking confused when he looks back at Richie, Stan leaning over to scan over the words himself. “Rich, we’re not going to leave you—”

            “Then we’ll all go to the kitchen,” Stan interrupts simply. Glancing towards Mike briefly, Stan looks at Richie, meets his gaze, and questions, “That’s what you mean, right? You don’t want either of us out of your sight.” Capping the pen, Richie hesitates, then nods once, the action small and curt. Brightening, and looking very relieved that the problem is much less severe than what they had assumed, Stan pushes himself to his feet. “Dinner needs to be made no matter what, so we’ll all go. We’ll both be there the entire time, and if anyone needs to leave the room for whatever reason, we’ll all go together.”

            Richie feels like he could cry from gratitude alone, but he does not shed a tear (has not been able to shed a tear, despite feeling on the edge of a breakdown ever since that phone rang). Instead, he nods once more, trying to convey how thankful he is for Stan understanding what he meant with his eyes, and follows the two of them out of the room, feeling like he’s walking in a dream as he goes.

 

 

 

 

            It’s a very strange feeling, this mixture of excitement and fear brewing within Eddie’s chest. The adrenaline that flows through his veins makes his hands shake, but the pure terror of the unknown that’s to come makes him movements slow. In retrospect, he could be halfway to Derry by now, had he moved as quick as he should have and hopped in the car within minutes of ending that call with Stan, but he didn’t do that. No, he spent a solid twenty minutes standing there, staring out the window, and then he wasted another twenty minutes sitting on the window sill and numbly eating the take out he had bought for himself. And it makes no sense, feeling so physically vacant when his mind is moving a mile per second. Because he should have thrown himself out the door as soon as he heard Richie’s name, should have rushed down to the lot and hopped in his car and sped away, packed bags and dinner be damned. Mike, Patty and Stan are more than happy to provide him food and clothes while he’s there, he knows – he’s visited them a fair share of times since starting the divorce process with Myra, and they are all great friends and ever better hosts to guests. Perhaps it’s just an excuse, though, a way to postpone leaving for as long as he possibly can. Which is just ridiculous, because…

            Jesus, it’s _Richie,_ and he’s been dying to see Richie again since the day he disappeared, but now that that day is here? He doesn’t know what to do, or how to feel, or- or anything. He just doesn’t fucking know, because he always hoped that he’d see Richie again, and when he was younger, he dreamed about it every night, but as the years went by that’s all that they were – dreams. Not something he believed was ever going to happen. Just a hope, a wish, something he felt foolish about. Hell, even two years ago he considered himself an idiot for still wanting Richie, and now, out of nowhere, Richie is back? Mere days after his divorce is finalized? He’s still reeling from finally freeing himself from the grasp of the woman he never loved, his brain can’t quite grasp that only person he’s ever fallen for is suddenly just… here.

            Well, _there._ In Derry, waiting for him and the others to arrive. And maybe it’s ridiculous, struggling more with this than he did with the aftermath of what they dealt with when they were thirteen, because at least he still moved back then. He hurt, he ached, he had nightmares, he was scared of what he would see around every single corner, but he kept fucking going, no matter what. Now, however, he feels like he can’t keep going, like stepping out that door will be the hardest thing he will ever have to do, even though he knows for a god damn fact that it isn’t even close. He stares at his suitcase, the one he just emptied of whatever random shit he shoved in it for the move, and he thinks that putting clothes in there will just be impossible. It would take five minutes, because his clothes are already folded up in boxes in his empty bedroom and all he has to do is move them from the box and into the suitcase, but he just can’t do it. Because he’s _scared._ He is so fucking scared that it fucking aches in his heart and churns in his stomach and presses against his chest until it feels like his ribcage is about to splinter beneath the pressure. And it sucks, for lack of a better word, because he wants to be exhilarated about Richie being found, but all he is… is terrified.

            Because there is no way that the Richie he knew twenty three years ago is the same one that is sitting in Derry right now. Because Eddie is still so fucking head over heels for this guy that he’s afraid of how he’ll react to seeing him. And what will he see, anyway? Will he see someone who’s lived a full, happy life without the losers, or will he see someone who was deprived of living? Stan said that, according to Mike, Richie sounded nothing like his old self. His voice had been barely audible, croaky and clearly not very used, but that was over the phone. Who knows how reliable that observation really is.

            Only, that doesn’t matter, Eddie realizes. It’s a sudden thought, an obvious yet unexpected thought, one that makes him blink once and come crashing back into himself so suddenly that it sends a shiver down his spine. It doesn’t matter, because Richie isn’t missing anymore. Richie isn’t missing.

            _Holy shit._

            “I need to leave,” he murmurs to himself, lurching forward to fling open the first ox of clothes sitting closest to him. It’s been a few hours now, he thinks, since Stan called him, and he should have been the first one to get to Derry due to living the closest, but he’s pretty sure the others are already on last minute flights and will probably reach Bangor Airport before Eddie even gets to Maine. That doesn’t matter either, though, because he’s going to get there no matter what, and he’s going to see Richie with his own eyes, and that is going to making everything okay.

 

 

 

 

            The first person to walk through that door after Patty gets home is the one and only Beverly Marsh. Richie always thought she was beautiful when they were teens, and often called her The Gorgeous Miss Marsh in a fancy accent just to make her giggle, but she has grown into herself incredibly. Even the way she walks into the room shows how strong she still is, and Richie can feel it in the air, can see it in the way she holds herself, that he had definitely been right about one thing – whatever it is she does for work, there is no shadow of a doubt in his mind that she is the boss.

            Then Ben follows in after her, and Ben has definitely grown into himself, his middle still soft but his shoulders broad and his features shining with a confidence he never had when they were younger. And Richie realizes he had been right about two things, because they have matching rings on their fingers and they share a look before spotting Richie sitting on the sofa that is filled with love. _They’re together,_ he thinks, heart skipping a beat in a giddy kind of joy. That’s good. They deserve each other.

            “Oh my god,” Beverly breathes when she finally looks over and meets Richie’s gaze. Tears spring to her eyes instantly, Ben looking shell shocked, and they stand frozen for a few long seconds while they take Richie’s appearance in. Richie isn’t much to look at, though, with his greasy mess of hair nearly reaching his shoulders and the scraggly beard he hasn’t bothered shaving, unwashed clothes that he hasn’t changed out of in at least a week clinging to his body, skin crying out for some soap, body begging to be taken care of. His stomach is happy, though, warm from the nice stew that Mike made. Despite how much of disaster he knows he looks, the two of them look overjoyed to see him, and when Beverly lurches forward, he almost allows her to close the space.

            Only, at the last second, some kind of panic seizes him, causing him to lurch off the couch and scramble away from her, and he feels so ashamed, moving away from the touch of the people he loves, even more so when she freezes and looks at him with wide, hurt eyes, but he can’t help it. He parts his lips, wanting to apologize, but his voice still won’t cooperate, leaving him useless to do anything other than turn to Mike and Stan, who are watching the scene with sad gaze, and beg them with his eyes to speak for him. Thankfully, Stan does, quickly saying, “You can’t touch him. We don’t know why yet, because he isn’t talking either, but it makes him freak out.”

            “Oh,” Beverly murmurs through an exhale, and that hurt in her eyes melts into guilt, as if she could possibly be blamed for not knowing something that is not obvious. Richie wants to kick himself in the head, mentally screams at himself to just work like a normal person already, but all he does is shut his mouth and offer what he hopes is an apologetic smile. Apparently getting the message, Beverly smiles back, lowering herself onto the couch Richie had been sitting on and making room for Ben to sit besides her. “That’s okay,” she says to Richie, voice light and comforting to listen to. “We won’t touch you then, not unless you’re okay with it.”

            “We promise,” Ben adds, and his voice is not what Richie expected, much deeper and mature than what he ever could have imagined, but it’s still that same, warm sound that Richie remembers, still pleasant and soft and something that can only be described as Ben. “Can you sit back down? Please?”

            It takes a moment, Richie’s mind reeling, his eyes scanning over Ben and Beverly repeatedly, but then he shuffles forward again, lowering himself into his seat but making sure there’s enough space for him to not accidentally brush against someone else. They look at him for a moment, almost expectantly, until Beverly lets out a slow breath and looks away. “I always thought you’d be talking up a storm once we found you,” she muses, mostly to herself, but the others all chuckle lightly in some kind of agreement. _I wish I could,_ Richie thinks, swallowing the lump in his throat and begging his body to just let him utter a single word, but nothing comes out. He flexes a hand, then reaches forward to grab the pen and notebook that Stan had given to him earlier.

            Feeling everyone’s eyes burning holes into him, he simply writes, _Sorry._

            “No, don’t be sorry,” Ben says before he’s even finished writing it, frown audible in his voice. “You have your reasons, I’m sure. We just don’t know what they are. It’s just weird because we’ve… I mean, it’s been a long time, but every memory I have of you includes you talking, joking, laughing…” he trails off, purses his lips, and shrugs. “You being so silent just isn’t what we expected, but I’m sure as shit not going to complain about it. I’m just glad you’re here. We all are.”

            Richie wants to respond to that somehow, in a way that matters, in a way that shows how much hearing that means to him. All his does is nod, tear out the page he had written on, and set the pen down to indicate that he does not plan to write anything else, at least for the time being. Taking that as a sign to change the subject, Beverly perks up, eyes brightening, and says, “I have an idea, to fill the silence. It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you—”

            _Twenty three years,_ Richie thinks. Give him a moment to think about it, and he could probably get the exact number of days, maybe even narrow it down to the hour or the minute.

            “—which means that… a lot of things have happened since you were gone,” Beverly goes on. She looks at Ben, glances toward Mike and Stan, and then returns her gaze to Richie to say, “We could tell you what you’ve missed, if… if you’d want that. I know that I want to know everything that’s happened to you since you disappeared, but since you aren’t talking, maybe you’d like to hear what has happened to us.”

            Without even thinking, Richie nods. One of the main things that kept him moving forward was imagining his friends lives, picturing where they would be, what they would be doing. To actually hear about it, to see if he was accurate in any of his assumptions, would mean more than words can explain.

            “Okay,” Beverly grins, seeing the way Richie’s eyes widen slightly with excitement, his nod curt and quick and certain. Grabbing Ben’s hand, she holds their linked fingers up to show off their rings, starting with, “Well, if you haven’t guessed yet, Ben and I are married. We didn’t start dating for forever, though, not until after college, probably a year or so after we graduated.”

            “I went to school in Boston,” Ben cuts in. “Got a degree in architecture. She got a business degree, and when she was trying to figure out how to put it to use, I suggested that we try starting a business together. An architecture firm, where we split the responsibility fifty-fifty and were both in charge. It took a while to actually go anywhere, but she’s incredible at what she does and was able to gets loans from banks and support from people willing to buy stock in us, and eventually we became pretty successful. Like, we’re set, money wise, and our kids are gonna be set, too. Especially since Stan is an amazing accountant and helped us make sure we were putting our money in the right places.”

            Holding a single hand up to wave it dismissively through the air, Stan grins at them. “You guys are smart, you didn’t need a whole lot of guidance. I just made sure you didn’t make any mistakes.”

            Richie uncaps his pen quickly, bringing it down on the page to write, _Kids?_ Then, in a haste, he holds it up for all four of them to see, making it clear that the question is meant for the entire group, not just Bev and Ben. It’s Ben that answers first, though, pulling something out of his back pocket that Richie cannot recognize. “We have two,” he says, tapping away at the object, before turning it towards Richie to show him a photo on it. Richie is bewildered at first, unfamiliar with whatever kind of technology this is, but chooses to question it later as he leans closer to look at the picture. “That one’s Mandy, she’ll be three in February,” he tells Richie, pointing to the older of the two kids in the photo – a little girl with Beverly’s hair and Ben’s eyes. Moving his finger to point at the younger child, he adds, “And that’s Ricky. He’s turning one in December. We actually named him Richard, after you, but it felt weird calling him Richie.” Feeling a little bit numb, a little bit disoriented, Richie nods, his throat closing slightly. They named one of their kids after him. After _him._

            “They’re staying with Ben’s mom while we’re here, but you can meet them as soon as possible,” Beverly tells him. “They’ve heard plenty of stories about their Uncle Richie. I mean, they’re still really young, so they probably don’t remember any of the stories, but still.”

            _Uncle Richie._ That punches a gust of air out of his lungs, makes his chest ache.

            “We have three kids,” Mike says, drawing Richie’s attention to him as Ben puts that device in his hands back into his pocket. Thankfully, what Mike grabs is a regular photo, one placed in a nice looking frame, which he quickly hands over for Richie to examine. “This is our oldest, Robin—” he points to a boy that looks distinctively like Stan, with angled features and sharp eyes, a goofy smile and bright hair. “He’s seven, and he’s biologically Stan and Patty’s, if you couldn’t already tell. This one is Debbie, named after my great grandma.” He moves his finger over, indicating a younger girl with long, curly hair and darker skin. Her eyes are bright and shimmering, her smile toothy and wide. “She’s six, biologically mine and Patty’s. If it were possible, we would have had one that was biologically mine and Stan’s, but science isn’t that advanced yet, I don’t think, so our youngest is adopted. Her name is Miranda,” he slides his finger over even more, and had he not told Richie that the child was adopted, he likely would not have known – in this picture, she has the same warm complexion as Mike, the same sharp eyes as Stan and her brother, and the same light brown hair as Patty. “She’s also six, but we adopted her when she was two.”

            “We’ve also told them about you,” Stan adds, smiling at the picture warmly, fondly. “They’ve been wanting to meet you forever, but we had Patty take them over to my parent’s house. They moved back to Derry after me and Patty moved in here, so they aren’t far. You could probably meet them tomorrow, if you’re feeling up for it.”

            And Richie would love to meet them, but he does not think he is capable of being in the right mindset for that at the moment. Handing the picture back to Mike, he takes his pen and slowly writes, _Not yet. When I can talk and act normal._ Then he lifts the page, flashing the words to Stan.

            “That’s fine,” Stan assures him instantly. “Whenever you’re ready. There’s no rush.”

            Richie offers what he hopes looks like a grateful smile, setting the notebook back on his lap and leaning back in his seat, glancing around at them all. And it isn’t all of them, not yet, but he was sure he’d never see any of them ever again. This is more than he could have ever asked for. It makes his heart swell in his chest, his lips twitching farther up, gaze settling on Mike as he leans forward and says, “I don’t know when Bill and Eddie are gonna get here, but Eddie has no kids yet, and Bill only has one, a three-year-old boy. He’s married to a really nice girl named Audra, who’s actually—”

            “Been wanting to meet you since the first time Eddie told me about you,” an unfamiliar voice interrupts, snapping Richie’s attention to the entryway of the living room. He had been warned beforehand that the rest of their friends know to just come in when they arrive, not needing to knock on the door or anything like that, but it still scares him with the sudden, unfamiliar presence in the room – a woman, with hair that’s close to the color of Beverly’s, grinning at him from across the room. She crosses the space quickly, falters a few feet away from him, and then sticks a hand out. “I’m Audra. I’ve heard so much about you from everyone.”

            “No touching,” Stan says. “He’s not responding to touch well right now.”

            Seemingly unbothered, Audra drops her hand, nodding once. “Okay.”

            “He’s not talking, either,” Mike informs her, “but he has a notebook to write down anything he wants to say. Just so you know.”

            “Not talking?” A new voice scoffs, and when Richie looks, it takes him a moment to realize it’s Bill – he’s aged well, for the most part, but he’s always looked a little older than the rest of them, tired in a way a person should never be. Still, through the bags under his eyes and the creases between his brows, Richie can recognize the boy he knew, especially when he grins at Richie and says, “Trashmouth is always talking. There’s no way he’s changed _that_ much. Can’t fool me like that, Hanlon.”

            Despite himself, Richie smiles, wider than he’s managed too so far, because that? That feels normal, the poking fun. It feels like how he remembers. And Bill looks at him, grin growing, but after a moment, his eyes turn expectant, and Richie realizes that he is waiting for Richie to respond. Richie’s smile falls, and with a deep breath, he shakes his head. “Not lying,” Mike murmurs. “He can’t talk.”

            Bill frowns then, looking curious, and makes his way forward to sit on the sofa opposite of the one Richie’s sitting on. “Can’t? Did something happen to you, an injury or something like that?” Again, Richie shakes his head, making Bill’s brows pinch together in thought. “Then why can’t you?”

            For a moment, Richie falters, before lifting up his pen and writing down an answer, making it as blunt as possible. Once he’s done, he puts the cap back on and lifts the notebook, spinning it around for everybody to read, watching their reactions as they do so.

            _I haven’t used by voice in five years._

 

 

 

 

            Eddie has not once gone under the speed limit since getting on the road. The world has been going past his windows in a blur, his only goal being to make sure he doesn’t crash and avoid being seen by any possible police. He presses his palms against the steering wheel to try and conceal how his hands shake, but his trembling fingers still fumble and slide against the surface when he tries to turn or adjusts the volume of the random radio station he has on. In all honesty, he’s a good driver – actually, he’s a great driver, but with his mind so fuzzy and his focus all over the place, he’s surprised he makes it to Maine in one piece, let alone to Derry. But make it he does, and at approximately two in the morning, he puts his car in park and takes the key out of his ignition. The sound of farm animals are quiet at this time of the night, but they’re still there, and the house looms in front of him like some daunting, powerful thing, which is probably the most ridiculous thing he has ever thought, because this house is most definitely the definition of comfort and warmth and friendship. Not once has he stepped foot into this place and not felt at ease. Even when he was younger, when this was where Mike lived with his parents and they let him come over whenever he wanted. Of course, he usually spent his time at Richie’s house, but the sentient had been just the same, and it’s stayed consistent as they got older.

            He’s been thinking a lot on this drive, a jumbled up mess of words and ideas and worries and hopes. He considered what he should say when he sees Richie, then he ponders over what he should do – hug him, shake his hand, fucking nothing? It’s not like he has some kind of guide on how to treat this situation, especially since he doesn’t even really know what the situation is. At least an hour of his drive had been spent on these thoughts, and he decided that he’d just going to go with what’s natural, whatever flows out of the moment. Now, however, that he is mere minutes away from the moment he’s been wishing for since he was eighteen, he regrets not weighing his options even more. Without some kind of plan of action, he’s afraid he’s going to freeze entirely and shut down in shock.

            Letting out a sigh, he postpones this for a few short moments longer, digging his phone out of his back pocket just to check if he’s missed anything important while driving. For the most part, it’s just texts from Myra, who he’s been adamantly ignoring, which will be a lot easier once he manages to switch his number and drop all possible contact with her entirely. He’s about to turn off the screen and dismiss those messages until later when he catches a single text from Bill mingling in the bunch.

 

            **_[Billy]_** _Not sure when you’re getting here, but fair warning: something really fucked up happened to Richie. We don’t know what, but he won’t let anyone touch him and he apparently hasn’t used his voice in five years and isn’t talking. It was really disorienting for me when I got here so I figured I should let you know so it won’t catch you off guard_

_._

            And, well… huh. Okay. Maybe that helps solve his dilemma, then. Brows pinching together, he typed back a simple response, thanking Bill for the warning and letting him know that he just got to the house. Then, locking his phone and shaking out his hands to try and dispel himself of some nerves, he gets out of the car, opting to leave his suitcase in the backseat for now, and heads towards the house on shaky legs and unsteady feet. And it’s a little unfair, really, how the drive here has already blurred in his mind, but these few seconds where he walks across the lawn and climbs the front porch steps feel as though everything has slowed down to a fucking crawl. It’s like he’s moving through honey, his every movement slow, the world frozen around him, his hand raising slightly to knock on the door before dropping to twist the doorknob when he remembers that they’re allowed to just go inside.

            Within the house, door shut behind him, everything feels still for a moment, silent, the only sound audible to him being his own breathing. The air is warm and presses against his skin in a way that is both comforting and stifling, causing sweat to bead at his hairline and on the back of his neck. And then, suddenly, he hears the sound of loud laughter.

            “She can handle her liquor like a fucking pro,” Bill says, pointing a finger in Audra’s direction, his demeanor almost childish and accusing. Audra rolls her eyes fondly and shrugs, as if it isn’t a big deal, while the rest of them snicker, Richie watching them with bright, awestruck eyes. “I mean it! She once downed, like, eight shots in less than a minute and didn’t even blink. It’s like tequila tastes like water to her. It’s fucking terrifying.”

            “What can I say?” Audra raises her glass of wine in the air, lips pulled up in a smug smile, and then lowers her glass to take a sip. Once satisfied, she smacks her lips together with an audible pop, raises her eyebrows at Bill, and finishes, “I’m not a fucking pussy, Denbrough.”

            Stan snorts so hard that his own wine almost shoots out of his nose, his hand slapping over his mouth to stop it from spilling past his lips. That reaction alone is enough to send the rest of them into near hysterics, and even Richie feels his chest shake slightly with silent laughter, small crinkles forming at the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t notice the approaching figure out of the corner of his eye, doesn’t feel the sudden weight of a new gaze on him, doesn’t realize what’s about to happen. Remains painfully unaware while Bill scoffs and says, “I never said you were, _Denbrough_. What I was _trying_ to say is—”

            Before Bill can continue, there’s a series of soft, timid knocks, drawing everyone’s attention to the entryway of the living room, where Eddie stands, looking stiff and unsure. And Richie is not prepared for his appearance, he realizes, because his entire being seems to shut down, his mind going blank, his body tensing, his mouth suddenly dry. No one speaks, perhaps feeling something in the air that tells them they shouldn’t, and if anyone moves, Richie doesn’t notice, because his eyes are glued, stuck, frozen, taking in Eddie’s features – grown up, like the rest of them, but there’s still something gentle in the curve of his cheeks, something fiery and powerful in the glint of his eyes, something indescribably beautiful in the slope of his nose. Hidden under years and years of aging, Richie can still see the boy he knew.

            Eddie, on the other hand, is absolutely floored. His head is filled with a fuzzy kind of noise, like radio static, and he feels a little woozy, like he’s swaying on his feet. Because that’s him, that’s Richie, sitting across the room from him, that much is clear. But he’s not the same Richie, hair reaching his shoulders in tangled, greasy curls, glasses taped together on the tip of his nose, a messy beard on his chin that looks more like the product of laziness than anything else. His skin is pale, and his freckles that were so prominent when they were kids are still just as visible, but a noticeable amount have assumedly faded over time, making the remaining ones even more attention-grabbing in contrast to his pale complexion. And Bill’s text had been right, Eddie already knows, because something about Richie feels somehow inherently wrong. Not with Richie, per say – as in, Richie is Richie, but the bags beneath his eyes are like bruises, and the crease between his brows looks permanent, and something about him just screams _tired._ He looks _tired,_ in a way that Eddie can’t comprehend, can’t imagine. Something awful happened to him.

            But right now, Eddie doesn’t focus on that, decides to deal with it later, because Richie is looking at him like the sun itself just walked into the room, and he knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Bill specifically told him Richie won’t let anyone touch him, but he wants more than anything to cross the room in one long stride and pull Richie into his arms. It takes all of his restraint not to, fingers twitching, nails digging into his palms, but he manages to limit himself to one small step in Richie’s direction, their gazes locked, before quietly, almost brokenly, murmuring, “Hi, Rich.”

            His own words seem to echo in the silence of the room, everyone watching the two of them, and Richie’s eyes shine with what appears to be tears, and Eddie is so caught up looking into those ocean blues that he doesn’t see Richie’s lips part, doesn’t notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs with a rough swallow, doesn’t prepare himself for the soft, almost inaudible whisper saying, _“Eds.”_ And it actually sounds painful, Richie’s voice – a croak, cracking in the middle of that single syllable, consisting of more air than sound, but it’s there, feeling like a physical weight on Eddie’s shoulders, and he’s so dizzyingly overwhelmed by it that he doesn’t bother to take in how everyone else is gaping at Richie in shocked silence. Their jaws drop even further when, after a moment of absolutely nothing, Richie throws himself out of his seat and practically _launches_ himself forward, barreling into Eddie’s chest with another broken, helpless attempt at saying Eddie’s name that makes Eddie’s heart ache.

            Though he feels a bit wary, he doesn’t hesitate to melt into the embrace, his arms enveloping around Richie’s shoulders, cheek pressed to Richie’s hairline, and he absently thinks that it doesn’t make much sense, Richie tucking himself under his chin despite being at least five inches taller than him, but he can’t deny that he adores this, holding Richie close to him and rubbing soothing circles into his back. And he knows he’s crying, though he can’t pinpoint the exact moment he starts, can only feel the way he chokes up, sniffling slightly, while he lets out a wet, breathless laugh. “You’re really here,” he says incredulously. “You’re actually- _Christ._ I missed you so fucking much.”

            _“Eddie,”_ Richie croaks again, like it’s the only thing he can say, but then his shoulders shake with a sob, and Eddie can feel his shirt start to dampen with Richie’s tears, and it takes him a moment to realize that this is more than just happy tears. He heaves in a horrible breath and releases it with a strangled cry of genuine anguish, and it takes ever fiber of Eddie’s being not to fall apart from how sad the noise is. Unsure of what else to do, gaze sliding up to look at his friends helplessly, he tightens his hold on Richie’s shoulders, hugs him closer, and starts to rock them from side to side.

            “I got you,” Eddie tells him gently, in a way he hopes is comforting. He feels his lower lip wobble, more tears rolling down his blotchy cheeks, and tries not to be crushed by the weight of this moment. “You’re okay, Richie. You’re here. I got you.”

 

 

 

 

            It takes a while to calm Richie down, a lot of murmured reassurances and gentle touches from Eddie and Eddie alone. By the time he’s managed to turn his sobs into hopeless little hiccups, it’s nearing three in the morning and Richie is hunched over on the sofa, leaning heavily against Eddie’s side. Mike tried holding his hand a minute ago, assuming that Richie won’t be as adamantly against it like before, but after a moment, Richie had still pulled his own hand back and shook his head. “’m tired,” he managed to get out in his strained, unused voice. It’s almost grates against their eardrums, that’s how gravelly it is, but it’s better than nothing, so everyone just smiles and nods, wanting to encourage him to keep talking. And he does, after a moment of hesitation, eyelids fluttering slightly as he turns his head to look at Eddie. He clears his throat, lips tugging down in a pained grimace, then forces out, “Can I—?”

            That’s all he can say before he starts to cough, and Eddie can’t imagine what it’s like, trying to speak after years of not doing so, but he can tell by the strain in Richie’s eyes that it’s painful. And he understands why everyone wants Richie to keep talking, seeking a sense of normalcy in this mess of confusion, but he doesn’t want Richie to hurt himself, so he quickly shushes him and nods, saying, “Whatever you’re asking, don’t bother. The answer is yes.”

            For a second, Richie frowns, looking a little bit guilty, like he wants to protest, but that guilt quickly melts into gratitude as he nods once and scoots his body down the sofa until he can settles his head in Eddie’s lap. His cheek presses to Eddie’s thigh, and with a sigh of content, he lets his eyes shut and murmurs, “Thank you.”

            “Get some sleep, Rich,” Eddie tells him softly, the words feeling so strange on his tongue, and he feels like he’s in some kind of dream. He just- his mind hasn’t fully grasped that this is real quite yet, that he is really here, and that Richie is with him, that this is actually happening. For a moment, he grins, blinded by the joy running hot in his veins, only to sober up a second later when he sees Richie scrub tear tracks from his cheeks, brows creasing together and features pinching up. It’s kind of cute, how childish he looks like that, but Eddie thinks it’s more concerning than anything else. They’re fourty now, yet Richie still shows some of the same behavior he had when he was seventeen, tapping his fingers and scrunching his nose as a subtle sign of distress. Putting it on the back burner for now (along with many, many other things), he gently runs his fingers through Richie’s hair, watching as Richie starts to relax, but not completely. Suppressing a frown, Eddie quietly promises, “We’ll all be here when you wake up, okay? I swear to you, no one will leave while you’re asleep.”

            Everyone is looking at them, Eddie can feel it. For the most part, the others have quietly been chatting to themselves, leaving the two of them in their own little bubble of peace, but now nobody is talking. They’re waiting on bated breath. Then Richie’s features smooth out, relaxing completely, and they all seem to exhale at the exact same time – perhaps with relief, perhaps something else. Around him, Eddie hears the others go back to their quiet talking, though now they speak even softer for the sake of Richie, no one wanting to keep someone who looks so exhausted from getting the rest he clearly needs. As for Eddie, he only watches, still idly running his hands through Richie’s hair, until Richie’s breathing has evened out and any ounce of stress or tension has drained from his body. Only then, when he is one hundred percent sure that Richie is asleep, does he let out a slow sigh and look away.

            “I have a question,” he announces, loud enough to draw everyone’s attention, but not so loud that it could cause Richie to stir. He waits until everyone has turned to face him before shifting his gaze to Mike, making it clear who the question is intended for, and asking, “How did… this happen? Like… what was the phone call like, how did you end up calling him in the first place, where was he, and other shit like that. Just, what do we know for sure about all of this?”

            “Nothing, really,” Mike answers honestly, shoulders slumping as he sucks his lower lip into his mouth to gnaw on it momentarily, pondering over his words. With a slight huff, he releases his lip, glances down at Richie, and says, “I have no clue how I ended up calling him. I mean, I didn’t even dial or anything, you know? I was going to call you, and I went to your contact to make the call, and Richie picked up. And he was… I mean. You heard how he sounds. And it took a few minutes of coaxing before he was able to tell me where he was, and he- he was at his house. The house he grew up in. He was just sitting in his room when I got there, and he wouldn’t talk to me, and when I tried to hug him he freaked out and pushed me away. And he…”

            Mike trails off, and something about his demeanor shifts, becoming tense. His features harden, eyes turning away, hands pressing to his knees. Eddie blinks slowly at this, unsure of what to make of it, and carefully questions, “And he what, Mike?”

            For a minute, Mike makes no move to respond, gaze glued to the wall and teeth sinking into his lower lip anxiously. Just when Eddie is about to demand an answer, Mike lets out a ragged sigh, abruptly lifting a hand to scrub over his face, quietly explaining, “When I walked in, I didn’t… I didn’t see it at first, ‘cause I was so focused on Richie, you know? I didn’t- I didn’t notice the other things in the room, not until…” He pauses, exhales slowly. “When I went to walk out of the room behind him, I… I saw it, sitting on the bed. I don’t know why he had it, but there was- there was a gun. Richie had a gun.”

            That statement hangs in the air for a moment, heavy and bitter and overwhelming. Then, with an exhale, Eddie murmurs, “Why would he need a gun?”

            “Maybe he thought he was in danger,” Ben offers, sounding unsure.

            Bill nods his agreement. “Yeah. Like, protection. Maybe from whatever caused him to go missing in the first place. That makes sense, right?”

            Slowly, Mike shakes his head, gaze sliding over to Stan. Sighing heavily, Stan says, “We didn’t want to bring it up in front of Richie, but Mike and I have been texting about it, and I think…” He stops, releasing a slow, strained breath, then finishes with, “I think he was going to kill himself.”

            “No,” Beverly murmurs, struck frozen with shock. _“No.”_

            “We don’t know for sure, obviously,” Mike says, raising his hands in front of him in some kind of defense, his eyes sad. “I just… looking at him, and thinking about it, it makes sense. He’s clearly been through hell the past two decades. That’d be more than enough to make me want to off myself.”

            In his chest, Eddie can feel his heart chipping away into broken pieces, gaze dropping to take in Richie’s appearance for what is likely the hundredth time since arriving. Even when asleep, Richie looks stressed, brows creased, lips tugged down in a slight frown. And he doesn’t want to consider it, doesn’t want to think about Richie giving up like that, but he can’t deny the obvious. “If that’s what he was planning to do,” he starts, sounding a little choked up, breath stuttering in his chest, “then it’s a good fucking thing that you called him when you did.” Tearing his eyes away to glance around the room, he sniffles once and states, “What matters is that he’s here, and he’s alive.”

            Nodding along, Ben adds, “And he’s talking a little bit now, too, which is good. He still seems skittish about anyone other than Eddie touching him, but still. That’s some improvement, at least.”

            “Let’s just hope he’ll be able to tell us what happened to him,” Stan mumbles, frowning at Richie’s sleeping figure with confusion and sadness.

            Bill lets out a sigh, scrubbing a hand over his features tiredly, and glances down at his watch with disdain. “I think we all need to get some rest before that happens,” he says around a yawn, offering a small smile to Audra when she settles a gentle hand on his shoulder. Glancing over to Stan and Mike, he asks, “Did you guys have any specifics for where we’ll be staying, or is it just first come first serve to the guest rooms? ‘Cause we can get a hotel room or something if—”

            “I just promised that no one’s going to leave while Richie’s asleep,” Eddie cuts in firmly, brows raised. “I don’t care if half of us have to sleep on the floor. No one’s leaving this house.”

            “We have enough room for all of you,” Mike laughs lightly, shaking his head in amusement. “You guys know where the guest rooms are. Stan and I should probably go lay down, too, so you can figure it out yourselves.” Pushing himself to his feet, he adds, “Also, me and Patty have to be up at eight to go feed the animals, so we’ll probably be making breakfast around nine, if any of you think you’ll be up by then. Eight is actually pretty late for us, but you guys don’t all live on a farm, so we totally get it if you need to sleep in for longer.”

            Snickering, Beverly throws a crumpled up napkin in Mike’s general direction, telling him, “Yeah, yeah, we know the damn drill, Hanlon. You two, go to your poor wife, sleeping all alone upstairs. We’ll get ourselves to bed just fine.”

            Rolling his eyes, Mike doesn’t bother responding, just gesturing towards the door in a grand, overdramatic way, grinning wide at everyone as they start to shuffle out of the room, following after when a majority of them are out. Stan hangs back for a moment, looking at Richie, still sleeping soundly with his head in Eddie’s lap. “Should we wake him up and get him to an actual bed?”

            “I don’t really want to risk waking him up,” Eddie admits, offering a tightlipped smile. “Just feels like he’d have a hard time falling back asleep.”

            Stan hums, arms crossed over his chest, brows pinched together. “I can go set up one of the guest rooms for you,” he offers meekly, looking as though he already knows the answer he’s going to get.

            As expected, Eddie shakes his head, gently carding his fingers through Richie’s hair, pushing away the fact that he’s in dire need of a shower, and says, “No, I think I’m good. Thank you, though.”

            “If you’re sure,” Stan murmurs through a slight smile. “You know where we are. Just come get someone if you need anything. Or just shout really, really loud, and you’ll probably wake at least one person up.”

            Eddie snorts, shakes his head and lifting a hand to gesture towards the door. “Go to bed, Stanley. I’ll be just fine, promise.” Raising his hands in surrender, Stan offers no verbal response, only looking at the two of them for a moment longer with a fond glint in his eyes. Then, with a soft exhale, he spins around on his heel, and he walks away.

 

 

 

 

_He realizes that it had been a close call, waiting so long to bring that Tozier boy back from the dimension his brother had cast the poor boy to. Had he waited even just a moment longer, there would have been no one to save, but he knew that he needed to wait for the exact right moment. Too early, they would have been so focused on the return of their friend that they would have completely dismissed his brother waking up from It’s long sleep. Too late, and Tozier would have returned to tragedy. The timing had to be perfect, and he feels as though he accomplished just that._

_For what appears to be a long time for humans, but had felt like the blink of an eye to Maturin, he watched as Tozier was forced to grow old alone. He considered bringing him back sooner, considered reversing this petty use of power that It had used the very same day It had done it, but he had known, deep within himself, that he could not do that. The way things work is strange, certain things needing to happen for other certain things to occur, and he had seen it all in his mind’s eye – he had seen when he had to interfere, and he had seen when he had to die._

_Now, he has done what he must, has returned the final member of these exceptional people to the group, and now he knows that they will do what needs to be done. Together, they harness the power that he had given to them when they were only children, and together, they will use that power to defeat the evil festering beneath their town. His job is done, and he has no other reason to stick around._

_With an absent thought wishing them the best of luck, he closes his eyes, and he fades away._

            Richie looks uncomfortable, his head ducked and his eyes low and his hands clasped together in his lap. The back of his throat aches from him forcing himself to talk, and part of him wants to curl up into a ball in Eddie’s lap and disappear while the rest of him is still timid about touch, though not nearly as much as he had been yesterday. Everyone is looking at him, their gazes confused, features bewildered, and no one speaks, not until Bill slowly shakes his head and says, “That’s not possible.”

            Which is about what Richie expected when they sat him down and asked him to tell them what happened, but it still hurts a little bit, seeing the disbelief written into the crease between Bill’s brow. Voice scratchy, throat complaining, Richie just lifts a meek shoulder and whispers, “It’s true.”

            “But…” Beverly trails off, shaking her head with a frown. “But _how?_ It doesn’t make sense, Richie. How could everyone else be gone when we never went anywhere?”

            “Are you sure you weren’t somewhere else? Maybe just somewhere that looked kind of similar?” Ben offers, his eyes reflecting the way the cogs turn in his head as he tries to rationalize what he’s been told. It’s not that he thinks Richie is lying – none of them do, at least he hopes so – but he assumes there’s just an issue with perspective. And Richie thinks that is the problem with growing up. When they were kids, what they said happened, happened. There was no _what if’s_ and _are you sure’s_. There was only nodding and acceptance and figuring out what to do about it. That’s what he was hoping for here, and he’s not surprised that this isn’t what he hoped for, but it’s not a pleasant feeling, seeing the way they look at him now. Like he might just be crazy, like he might have just imagined it all.

            Swallowing back something acidic and foul, Richie shakes his head once and says, “I’m positive. I just… I woke up, and everyone was gone.” He takes a moment to clear his throat, and it hurts, talking like this, but he refuses to backtrack and start writing again. This is why he had spent so long talking to himself, to avoid this exact thing, yet he’d still allowed himself to get to this point. Beside him, Eddie silently hands him a glass of water, which he quickly and gratefully accepts. After taking a quick drink that help to ease the aching in his vocal chords, he lets out a long sigh and continues with, “I looked everywhere for someone, all over Derry, all over Maine. All over the fucking _country._ No one.” He can still see the disbelief in their eyes, though, the fact that they just don’t think what he’s saying is real. Which is why, after a short moment of hesitation, he meets Stan’s gaze and tells him, “I went to your house, in Georgia. Took forever to find it, but I did. I wanted… something, from all of you, to keep with me, you know? I had Bev’s necklace, Mike’s journal, Ben’s poetry book, some random flannel that kind of looked like the one Bill used to wear because I couldn’t actually get to London, a polaroid from Eddie’s room, and… and a sketchbook from yours.”

            For a moment, Stan blinks slowly, looking a little shocked. “A sketchbook?”

            “Yeah,” Richie breathes, his voice getting weaker with every second that he forces himself to keep speaking. “Had your drawings in it, of nature and animals and us. Found it hidden behind your dresser. Like you… didn’t want anyone to see them, or something.”

            “Huh.” Stan breaks their eye contact, brows raised high and eyes angled up towards the ceiling in bewilderment. “I forgot that I used to hide that there. Pretty sure the only person who knows about that is… fuck. No one, I guess. I might have mentioned it to Patty when we were in college, but…” He trails off, shaking his head slowly, before glancing at the rest of their friends. “I believe it. I don’t know how it happened, or… or what the fuck happened, but he wouldn’t lie about it, and I don’t know how he would have known about that otherwise. So, I believe him.”

            It’s simple, but Richie’s shoulders sag in silent relief. At least that’s one person who’s listening to him instead of questioning him. Better than nothing, he supposes. However, that relief doesn’t last long, as Bill quickly speaks up to say, “It’s not that I don’t believe him, I just- I don’t think it’s what he thinks it was. There’s no way that he was the only person on Earth when we’ve all clearly been here the entire time. If anything, he’s the one who vanished into this air.”

            Thankfully, Richie doesn’t have to try and defend himself this time, as Eddie quickly lets out a scoff and casts a glare in Bill’s direction. “I’m sorry,” he starts, “but did we or did we not fight a fucking demon clown when we were thirteen? Pretty sure this is entirely in the realm of possible here. And stop interrogating him like he’s done something wrong, you’re just gonna make him feel bad when literally none of this is at all his fault.” He shuffles closer to Richie until their shoulders brush together, chin up and eyes narrowed, before he states, “You’re the one who asked to hear what happened, so there’s no reason to get so fucking upset about the answer.”

            Slumping back in some kind of surrender, Bill nods, letting out a slow, tired exhale. “You’re right, I’m sorry. I just… don’t understand. But that’s not your fault.” He addresses the last part directly to Richie, his eyes gentle and apologetic, and there’s something so boyish in that look, for some reason. In his mind, Richie can envision a younger Bill, fourteen, maybe fifteen-years-old, giving him that same exact look after accidentally breaking his glasses or before leaving to fly back to his house in London.

            “I don’t understand, either,” Richie offers meekly, keeping his voice as quiet as he possibly can while still being heard, wanting to avoid causing any more pain. “If that helps.” It doesn’t, and they all know it, but it does draw out slight chuckles from everyone. Richie thinks that this is as good a time as any to bring up the thing that’s been lingering in the back of his mind since he woke up a few hours ago and realized the previous day had not been a dream. Clearing his throat lightly, wincing at the way it slightly burns when he does so, he timidly glances around at everyone and admits to them, “I have a question, too, if that’s okay.”

            “Of course it is,” Mike tells him, leaning forward in his seat.

            Richie’s brows twitch up slightly before drawing together in though, a hand lifting to his mouth so that he can nervously gnaw on his thumbnail. He’s afraid of the answer, but he has to know. After a moment of nothing, he lets out a sigh, lowers his gaze to his lap, and softly asks, “Are my parents still…”

            Alive goes unsaid, but they seem to understand, as he can hear the six of them (Audra and Patty are wandering around somewhere, giving them the privacy they need) inhale sharply at the exact same time. That should be an obvious give away, but Richie still feels significantly unprepared when Eddie settles a warm, slightly shaky hand on his shoulder and answers, “No, they’re not, Rich. I’m sorry.”

            It’s the answer he expected – he is fourty, after all, and his parents unfortunately went a long time not taking proper care of themselves and knew they wouldn’t be living very long lives – but the words feel like a dagger to his chest, piercing his heart. Pressing his lips together to try and hide the way Richie’s lower lip trembles, he ducks his head once in a half nod, trying to hold back tears.

            “They never stopped looking for you, though,” Eddie goes on. His hand slides up from Richie’s shoulder and gently cups his chin, coaxing him to lift his head and meet Eddie’s slightly watery gaze. “I spent every holiday with them, every single year, and they never gave up hope on finding you. They loved you so fucking much, Richie. You know that, right?”

            And that’s what breaks Richie’s resolve.

            He’s known this entire time that he does not look strong. His body is frail and lanky and underweight, his overall appearance is scraggly and unkempt and the definition of disarray. The clothes he’s wearing are the same ones he’s had on for at least a week or two, his hair is a knotted, unwashed mess that should probably just be shaved off and given a fresh start, his skin is pale and covered in a layer of dirt and grime and filth that he hasn’t bother washing away. Ever since arriving here, he’s been completely aware of how pathetic he must look, especially in comparison to his well-dressed, squeaky clean, professional looking friends. However, he knows he must look the most messy right now, as he hunches over against Eddie’s side and buries his faze in Eddie’s chest with a sob that’s more physically painful than anything else. Because he gave up hope on ever seeing his parents again at least a decade ago. Because he remembers specific days where his heart ached in a certain way that felt like sudden grief, though he had been unable to pinpoint where that grief came from. Because, even if he stopped believing it would happen, he had always wished that, somehow, he’d get the chance to tell his parents he loves them at least one last time. He’d assure them that he’s long since forgiven them for those few years where they lost their grip and weren’t as attentive as they should have been. He hopes, with an aching heart, that they did not die feeling guilty.

            And when Eddie hugs him closer, he wishes, with every single fiber of his being, that they died loved. Content. Happy, or as happy as they could be after the world mistreated them so horribly for so long. Perhaps it’s not a comforting wish to make, but in this situation, it’s all he can do.

 

 

 

 

            That night, Patty approaches Mike with a look of disdain, lips tugged down in a frown and brows pinched together. “Look,” she murmurs, handing over the daily paper with a sense of reluctance, as if she doesn’t really want him to see what is printed on the front page. And that much, he realizes, is true, as his eyes scan over another ad for a missing child, as well as an article about a child’s body being discovered in the Kenduskeag. It’s strange, really, because the original reason he had gone to make that call to Eddie was because of this – because of the missing kids, the dead bodies, the funny feeling hanging heavily in the air – but with the chaos that came with finding Richie, he had damn near forgotten about it.

            “Shit,” he sighs, eyes closing briefly as he lets his head thump against the back of the sofa. The others are in the kitchen currently, all of them chatting over plates of food and working on helping to draw Richie out of his shell some more. He’s getting better with every hour that passes, but the progress is slow, a little tantalizing in a way. Either way, improvement is improvement, and Mike is proud of him. And he thinks, with a sudden burst of dread, that he does not want to ask Richie to face these horrors with them. He’s just spent his entire adult life in his own personal hell, though none of them can understand how that’s possible, and the last thing Richie needs is to face the same otherworldly being that had traumatized them so much when they were kids. Along with that, though, Mike knows that it has to be the seven of them, that they need to be together when they go back down into those sewers, or else they won’t be as strong as they need to be to get the job done. Momentarily, he considers postponing this for a month or two, just to give Richie more time to get more comfortable and the give the rest of them more time to adjust to having Richie with them again, but one more look at the innocent eyes on the missing poster tells him that he can’t do that. Besides, if it’s too much for Richie to handle, he doesn’t have to go down to the sewers with them. Him being here will be… almost enough. Maybe. Fuck, Mike doesn’t know.

            He doesn’t really know about any of this. All he knows is that, if they’re able to finally bring this to an end and save the lives of children for generations to come, they have no other choice.

            Pushing himself to his feet, he clutches the paper in one hand and takes Patty’s hand in the other, seeking comfort in her presence as they make their way to the kitchen side by side. He remembers when Stan told Patty about everything that had happened to them as kids, before the three of them were together and he was left to watch the two of them with a heavy heart and uncertainty running thick in his veins. Patty had called him and demanded to know every detail of what they went through, wanting to see if all the details would match up and prove that Stan was telling the truth. And she had believed them as soon as she saw Stan cry and heard Mike weep over the line, though she still sounded a little skeptical for a little while longer, but in the long run, she is here with them and ready to support them through all of this. She’s expressed how badly she wishes she could help in some way, but she knows she isn’t part of the lucky seven in the same way that’s needed to win the fight. Mike is beyond grateful for her support and understanding alone, and has told her so on plenty of occasions. In this moment, as they stand at the end of the kitchen table and everyone’s eyes fall to them naturally, he is even more grateful, and squeezes her hand once to try and convey that sentiment to her. She squeezes his hand in return to convey her understanding, and he almost smiles despite the heavy feeling in his chest.

            But then Stan spots the newspaper in his hand and lets out a long, shaky sigh. “Another one?”

            “Unfortunately,” Mike tells him, handing the paper over to him to let him see for himself. He can see the moment the majority of them understand what he’s talking about, sporting similar frowns as they crane their necks to try and get a peek at the article themselves, but Richie just looks at him in confusion, a silent question brewing in his eyes. He waits until Eddie catches on and settles a comforting hand on Richie’s arm before quietly explaining, “It’s back. That’s the original reason why I was trying to call everyone when I ended up calling you.”

            “It…?” Richie repeats softly, looking even more confused, before realization dawns on his features like a dark shadow. He sinks his teeth into his lower lips so hard that Mike is almost certain the action must breaks skin and draws blood, and he can see the distress in the crease between his brows. “Oh. It. Right.”

            And Mike hates how fragile Richie looks, how fragile he is, how it feels like a slight shove will shatter him into a million pieces. Releasing Patty’s hand, he steps forward, lowering himself into the empty seat on the other side of Richie, and assures him, “You don’t have to do anything, okay? You don’t even have to come with us, you can stay here with Audra and Patty.”

            Eddie nods, his hand now rubbing slight, soothing circles against the small of Richie’s back. “We completely understand if it’s too much, going back down there after everything else.”

            “No,” Richie protests weakly, shaking his head and releasing his lower lip from between his teeth in order to set his jaw in a look of determination. _“No,”_ he repeats more firmly, voice a little bit louder. “I have to go with you. It has to be all seven of us. I’m not… I can’t sit here and hope you guys don’t die just because I wasn’t there.”

            He sounds so sure, and they all see it then, the flash of the guy they knew. The one that taunted Henry Bowers just to make sure that he would receive the brunt of the pain and give his friends a chance to run away or get the upper hand in the fight. Richie always protected them in his own way, putting himself in danger for the mere chance to get his loved ones away from it, and even now, that’s no different. Still, Eddie asks him, “Are you sure?”

            But Richie looks more than sure. He looks dead set on his decision, like nothing could ever convince him to change his mind. “I’m going,” he states, no room in his voice for argument.

            “Okay,” Mike murmurs, and he thinks he could cry, but he isn’t sure exactly where the tears would come from, so instead he gets to his feet again and looks around the room. “When should we go?”

 

 

 

 

            It takes a lot of coaxing, but eventually, Eddie leads Richie to the bathroom, a pair of kitchen scissors tucked into his back pocket and a chair from the dining room in hand.

            Underneath the florescent light, it’s even more evident that Richie has neglected to take care of himself for quite some time now. He’s in need of a long, hot shower, but Eddie had promised him a bath, and he plans to fulfil that promise. As the tub fills with steaming water, he gets out everything he thinks will be necessary, a few towels stacked on the counter with the scissors and the electric razor that Mike had quickly agreed to let them use placed on top. On the closed toilet lid, he places the folded pajama pants and sweatshirt that Ben lent them, ready for Richie to change into once this is done.

            Richie watches him set this up with strained features, looking almost ashamed, and softly tells him, “You don’t have to do this, Eds.”

            “I know,” Eddie replies easily, offering a small, reassuring smile. “But I have a feeling you don’t want to be alone, not even for this, and I really don’t mind. Besides, I used to cut your hair for you in high school, remember? This is nothing new.”

            “Bathing me is definitely new,” Richie points out, looking down at the bathtub with a frown. “I just… you don’t have to take care of me like this. I can do it myself.”

            Eddie hums, shutting off the water once he deems the tub to be full enough, and faces Richie fully, brows pinched together and head tilted slightly to the side. “Do you _want_ to do it yourself? Because I’ll leave you alone, if that’s what you want, but if you want company, then I’ll gladly stay.”

            For a moment, Richie just squints at Eddie in consideration, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts, until his shoulders slump and his reluctance bleeds away into an aura of gratitude as he admits, “I don’t want you to leave.”

            “Then I’m staying,” Eddie states simply, propping his hands on his hips and glancing around the room momentarily. After a few seconds of pondering, wanting to make sure he hasn’t forgotten anything, he gives Richie a wide, toothy grin that looks incredibly boyish for a fourty year old man. “Don’t worry, I’ll cover my eyes while you get in the tub,” he says, partially teasing, partially asking if he should turn around or not. All Richie does is shrug, only looking mildly anxious and mostly indifferent as he faces his back to Eddie and reach for the hem of his shirt, only to freeze momentarily, hands hovering over the material, fingers flexing slightly.

            “Um.” He sounds sheepish, suddenly, quiet and unsure. Eddie can’t help but frown, resisting the urge to shuffle forward and try to offer comfort despite not knowing what the comfort is needed for. Letting out a slow breath that makes his shoulders shake, Richie tells him, “Just, a warning, I… I’m not exactly… nice to look at. There’s a lot of, um…” he trails off, shaking his head, and grips onto his shirt, preparing himself to lift it up and away. “You’ll see, I guess.

            And Eddie doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say at first, because his eyes don’t find anything out of the ordinary when the piece of clothing is removed, but then the light catches on some discoloration, and then he sees it. The scars, plenty of them, some small and some large, littering Richie’s skin in various places – most of them are simple little lines, likely left behind from falling on a rock or something like that, but others are long and jagged and look painful despite already being fully healed. He steps forward on his own accord, mind going blank, and blinks heavily in surprise. “Oh my _god…”_

            Richie lets out what could be a laugh, only it sounds too strangled and humorless to really come across as one. He drops his shirt by his feet carelessly and shrugs again, but doesn’t provide an explanation as he shimmies out of his pants as well. Eddie forces himself to look away when he steps out of his underwear, though his mind continues to conjure images of the scars, scrambling to come up with where they could have come from. When Richie told them about what happened to him, he never mentioned anything about getting hurt, at least not physically. Eddie wonders why he had kept that information to himself. Before he can get too lost in his head, however, Richie clears his throat meekly, bringing him back to the present. When Eddie looks back over, he sees that Richie has already lowered himself into the water and is looking up at him with wide, timid eyes, magnified behind his old, taped together glasses, and he almost looks guilty, like he should feel inherently ashamed for his appearance.

            “Let me take those,” Eddie mumbles, partially to Richie and partially to himself, stepping forward to pluck the glasses off the bridge of Richie’s nose. He folds them up, sets them gently on the counter, and then lowers himself into the dining room chair he brought with them, positioned besides the bath tub for exactly this. And he realizes how young Richie looks, staring at Eddie like that, like he just doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do, like he needs the answers spelled out for him. Maybe he does, at least in this moment. Eddie just smiles at him gently, grabbing the luffa and dipping it in the water, not yet bothering with soap just yet. The bath is meant to help get rid of the initial layer of grime on Richie’s skin – after this, he will take a quick shower where he’ll actually wash both his body and his hair with the soaps that Stan, Mike and Patty handed over to them a mere twenty minutes ago. As he retracts the luffa from the water and starts carefully scrubbing Richie’s shoulders, he asks, “Is it okay if I ask you where the scars came from?”

            He asks because he’s curious. He asks because he’s worried. He asks because he feels as though he needs to know. Richie his lifts the shoulder that Eddie’s isn’t currently cleaning in a half shrug. “Sure, I guess. Just tell me which one you want to know about.”

            With a slight, airy laugh, Eddie moves to the center of Richie’s back, between his shoulder blades, and murmurs, “All of them.” Even as he says this, though, he finds his eyes lingering on one in particular – the nastiest of them all, stretching from the bottom left of Richie’s back and stretching up, across his spine. Slowing his movements to a snail’s pace, he pulls back a hand and traces a finger fingertip over the scar, brows creasing together. “This one,” he decides. “The big one.”

            Richie doesn’t need to ask for clarification, apparently already knowing exactly which one Eddie is talking about. “Crashed the car I was driving,” he answers simply, quietly, sounding as though he’s confessing his sins rather than telling a story. “When I was twenty-two, I think. I, uh… I had this period, probably about a year or so, where I was convinced I was in a coma or just… stuck in a nightmare, or something like that. So, I started doing reckless shit, trying to get myself to wake up.”

            “Oh,” Eddie breathes, chest aching as he continues to trace over the scar, unable to tear his gaze away from it. “How’d you crash?”

            “I was speeding.” Richie’s voice is so small, hard to hear, but Eddie listens intently, wanting to take in every single word. With a humorless, strained sort of chuckle, he adds, “And I think I was drunk, too. I didn’t really see the point in being careful ‘cause there was no one else for me to put in danger other than myself. And I… I don’t know, really. I was just outside of Detroit, and I was fine one second, then the car was upset down the next and I was in so much pain that I think I went numb at one point. Had to drag myself to the closest hospital I could find and stay there for a while.”

            Eddie doesn’t respond right away, pulling back his hand slowly and blinking once to try and focus back on the task at hand. He goes back to the luffa, moving it around in small circles, occasionally dipping it back in the water before continuing where he left off. Richie doesn’t try to talk more, waiting to hear whatever it is that Eddie will have to say. After a few minutes of nothing, Eddie lets out a long, slow exhale, one that almost sounds like a sigh, and asks, “Did you crash on purpose?”

            He expects immediate denial, but Richie doesn’t even tense up at the question. He looks down at the water, flutters his eyes shut, then opens them again. “Maybe,” he answers eventually. “I don’t know. I can’t… I can’t remember.”

            Slowly, Eddie nods, dipping one of his hands into the water in order to grab Richie’s left wrist and lift his arm up, extending it out in front of him. As he continues to use the luffa to wash away the dirt and the sweat and the mud, he glances up, meeting Richie’s gaze briefly. “Mike saw the gun,” he states then, unsure of how else to approach the subject. “When he went to pick you up, he saw it. He said it was sitting on your bed.” Richie’s doesn’t respond, only blinks at Eddie slowly, eyes going wide and lips pressing together. Turning his eyes back to luffa, Eddie quietly tells him, “Bill thinks you had it to protect yourself, but Stan and Mike both think you were planning to shoot yourself with it.”

            It’s not a question, not technically, but Richie still answers with a heavy, “I was planning to, before the phone rang.” He doesn’t sound ashamed about it, not a hint of guilt or regret in his tone.

            “Why?” Eddie asks, not in an accusing or angry way. He just wants to know.

            Richie purses his lips slightly, squinting at the white wall of the shower. “I gave up on ever seeing you guys again,” he tells Eddie with a hum. “I guess I was just tired of waiting for something to change.”

            Which is more than fair, Eddie thinks – after all, no matter the how or the why, the simple truth is that Richie was completely and utterly alone for twenty-three years. To be completely honest, Eddie isn’t sure how he had managed to keep himself on his feet for that long, how he hadn’t lost his mind and given up years earlier. He knows how much Richie despised being alone when they were younger, remembers how often he’d be awoken by his window opening at some ungodly hour just because Richie couldn’t sleep and wanted some company. So, he could say a lot of things here – he could tell Richie that he’s glad he hadn’t done it, could tell Richie that’s he’s strong. He could ask Richie how he did it at all, too, if that’s what he wanted to do. All of these things would be perfectly reasonable right now. What he settles on saying, however, is a very soft, very warm, “I’m proud of you.”

            It’s clearly not what Richie is expecting to hear, if the way his head snaps to the side to looks up at Eddie in bewilderment is any indication. “You… what?”

            “I’m proud of you,” Eddie repeats simply, taking Richie’s other arm and taking the luffa to it, just as he had done with the first. When Richie continues to silently gape at him, Eddie continues, elaborating with, “What you went through… you survived it. And even if you didn’t survive it, if you had given up sooner or went through with shooting yourself before getting that call, I would still be proud of you, because you still survived it for as long as you could have handled to. That’s something to be proud of.”

            For the rest of the bath, Richie doesn’t speak, only shifting his gaze from Eddie to his hands and back again in silent wonder, doing as Eddie asks him to in order to make sure all of him has been carefully scrubbed clean. Once he’s satisfied, Eddie puts the luffa back and dries his hands on one of the towels he had taken out earlier, pushing himself to his feet as he does so. Richie just watches him, unsure. But then Eddie smiles at him, the same small dimples that he’s had since they were in Kindergarten appearing on his cheeks, and Richie relaxes again. There’s nothing to be unsure of.

            Although Eddie offers to help wash his hair, Richie insists on taking the shower alone, so long as Eddie promises not to leave the room. Clearly unbothered, Eddie agrees, and even makes sure to keep some kind of conversation going the entire time to make sure Richie knows he’s still there. By the time he steps out of the shower, already using the towel that Eddie handed him upon him shutting the water off to start patting himself dry, he feel more relaxed than he has since he was seventeen. His entire body feels loose and light, perhaps a result of being thoroughly cleaned for the first time in who knows how long or a result of allowing himself to enjoy something he never thought he was have again (the company of someone he loves), and when Eddie grins at him, as if already detecting the lack of tension in Richie’s muscles, he grins back, feeling kind of giddy in an odd, childish sort of way.

            Once he’s dried himself off enough to put on the clothes Ben gave him, Richie allows Eddie to guide him to the chair, which is now positioned in front of the mirror. Richie scans over his reflection quickly, and he looks almost normal now, not nearly as worn down and tired as he had before. The only thing that’s left is his long, unkempt hair and scraggly beard, which Eddie clearly has plans to deal with.

            “Which should we do first,” Eddie asks him, brushing his fingers through Richie’s hair gently. “Cut the curls, or trim up this facial hair?” When Richie merely shrugs, having no real preference, Eddie hums and bobs his head in a nod, nose scrunching slightly in consideration. “Beard,” he decides out loud, withdrawing his hands from Richie’s hair in order to round the chair and plug the electric razor in. He faces Richie fully, smiles wide, and carefully angles Richie’s head upward with an index finger to his chin before instructing, “Don’t move unless I tell you to. Okay?”

            “Okay,” Richie agrees in a whisper, closing his eyes and giving Eddie every ounce of trust that he has to offer. When Eddie softly turns his head from side to side, he doesn’t resist, following whatever movement he’s supposed to, tilting his chin higher when he’s asked, until he hears the sound of the razor shut off and he feels Eddie tap his cheek lightly, just to get his attention.

            When he opens his eyes, he does not look at his reflection, feeling no real need to see how he looks quite yet. He only gazes up at Eddie and waits as Eddie examines his work, brows drawn together in concentration. “I think that’s good,” he murmurs to himself, hovering there for a fraction of a second longer before nodding in satisfaction and moving back around until he’s standing behind Richie once more. Meeting gazes in the mirror, Eddie purses his lips slightly in thought, once against running his fingers through Richie’s hair, the action almost absentminded as he asks, “How much do you want to have chopped off?”

            Having no real preference, Richie just shrugs and says, “Whatever you think is best.”

            “Hm.” Eddie takes a moment to consider this. Then, apparently coming to some kind of decision, he picks the scissors up from where they’re still sitting on the bathroom counter, and he gets to work.

            It’s quite an odd feeling, the strange relief that comes with each strand of hair that’s cut short. The weight being lifted off his shoulders (both figuratively and literally) is almost therapeutic, in a way he’s never really imagined before, never experienced prior to now. He can’t help but to close his eyes, much like he did while Eddie had been shaving his beard, only now he feels his heartrate slow peacefully with every breath he takes, seeking comfort in the brush of Eddie’s fingertips against the curve of his neck, finding shelter in the sound of Eddie’s soft breathing.

            He isn’t even sure how much time has passed when Eddie brushes a thumb over Richie’s cheek with a featherlight touch. “All done,” he murmurs, and Richie isn’t expecting him to be as close as he is when he opens his eyes, Eddie’s nose mere centimeters away from his own, and there’s a sudden little ache in his chest, one he can’t ignore, one that’s been festering for decades.

            And he doesn’t mean to say it, but he looks directly into Eddie’s eyes, and he tells him, “I was in love with you, back when we were kids.” Eddie just blinks, stunned, but he doesn’t l recoil, doesn’t lower his hand or flinch away. Leaning into Eddie’s touch subconsciously, Richie adds, “And I don’t think that’s changed. Even after… all of this.”

            “You were…” Eddie trails off, brows pinching together before twitching up, nearly disappearing behind his hairline. “You… You _are…?”_

            “I am,” Richie practically whispers, partly because he doesn’t want to speak too loud and risk ruining the moment, but partly because his voice is simply overused and in dire need of a break that he refuses to allow himself just yet.

            Eddie lets out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Wow. _Wow._ I’ve been wanting to hear you say that since we were thirteen, you know that?”

            A good reaction, Richie believes, and most definitely ideal. “I wanted to tell you sooner, but…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hand. “Sucks, ‘cause I had it planned out, too. Wanted to confess on my birthday. Make it romantic. Not… _this.”_

            “This is a little late, but I kind of like it more,” Eddie shrugs, bringing up his other hand to cup the other side of Richie’s face in his palm, albeit gently, almost afraid that Richie will pull away. Eddie is the only person he has yet to pull away from, however, but that doesn’t help the anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface of his skin. Richie stays put, though, looking content (and much better now that he’s showered and had his mess of untamed hair taken care of), and offers a questioning hum, spurring Eddie to explain, “I just mean that… as much as I would have liked for things to be different, I kind of like the idea that, even after everything, we still… you know?”

            “Still… what?” Richie asks, though he’s fairly certain he knows that answer already. Even so, it’d be nice to make sure, especially since he’s been dreaming about a moment like this for as long as he can remember.

            Sounding only mildly sheepish, Eddie tells him, “Still meant to be together. Like… the world didn’t change its mind or decide that we’re not compatible anymore or something like that. I always thought that… I don’t know. I just always had a feeling that there was no question who I was supposed to be with, but then you disappeared and I started thinking that maybe the world had different plans. But now, you’re… you’re here again, and I feel like the world is fixing itself, you know? Does that… I mean, does that make sense?” Richie doesn’t answer, only smiles and nods once, leaning even more into Eddie’s palms. And it feels so high school, but Eddie knows that he can’t make any sort of next move without communicating about it first, knows that not doing so while Richie is still so iffy about touch would be a horrible idea. Which is why, after swiping a thumb beneath Richie’s eyes, over the curve of his cheekbone, Eddie asks him, “Can I kiss you? Is that okay?”

            Richie looks elated as soon as he hears those words, but he looks thoughtful, too. In a tone that’s equal parts awe struck and scarily serious, he responds, “We could die tomorrow, when we go back down there. I’m not dying without kissing you at least once.”

            “Is that a yes?” Eddie questions, a little confused.

            “That,” Richie says, leaning forward just enough for their noses to brush together, “is a _fuck_ yes.”

            He sounds so much like his younger self when he says it, a somewhat teasing yet urgent lilt in his voice, one that makes Eddie feels weak in the knees. Not wanting to wait even a fraction of a moment longer, Eddie ducks his head further, tilts it to the side, and presses their lips together, movements languid yet rushed, heart thundering in time with Richie’s within his ribcage.

 

 

 

 

            _It has pictured an infinite number of ways that this could have gone, but not a single time had It considered the Turtle bringing Tozier back from the realm It had sent him to._

_Of course, It isn’t really surprised. It’s brother has always interfered with what It wants to do, has constantly gotten in the way and made things far more difficult than they’re supposed to be. However, It is angry – angrier than It has ever been before, because this interference has the potential of leading to It’s demise. Bringing Tozier back, completing the stupid Lucky Seven… oh. Oh, It had not considered this. It has not prepared well enough, but It will not lose._

_It can’t lose. It losing is simply just not a possibility. It has to survive, to thrive, to live on and continue to feed on the children of Derry. There is no other option._

_Only, as they draw closer, the seven of them, It starts to think… no, It starts to fear that perhaps, somehow, It is wrong. It starts to think that perhaps, somehow, It may end up losing anyway._

_But if It can’t win, the least It can do is go down with a fight._

 

 

 

 

            Their morning had been pleasant, laying intertwined on the bed in one of the various guest rooms that the farmhouse has to offer. Richie’s hair was finally dry after his shower from the night before, no longer weighed down by water or dead ends, making it as light and fluffy as Eddie could remember it being. For a long time, neither of them spoke, only laid together with Richie’s head resting on Eddie’s bare chest and Eddie’s fingers carding through his unruly bedhead. From the window, the sun shone down on them in soft, golden streams of lovely light, both of them soaking the feeling of the natural warmth that came with it. Eventually, however, the comfortable silence shifted into something just as comfortable but not as quiet, as Eddie tapped a gentle finger against Richie’s temple to draw his attention and asked, “Do you regret it?”

            “Hm?” is all Richie responded with, unsure of what Eddie was talking about but not wanting to start straining his vocal cords until absolutely necessary. It’s become less painful since his first day, sure, but it’s still not pleasant, the way the muscles in his throat burn when he speaks.

            “Doing this,” Eddie explained, shifting a leg over to bump his knee into Richie’s side to remind him of their current state – of the lack of clothing on their bodies, of the way things had unexpectedly escalated after they had tried to retire to bed for the night. Emotions had been high, though, and minds had been lingering, and with tentative questions and murmured assurances, they had gone from simply laying together to melting into each other’s touch. And Eddie did not regret it – does not regret it now, hours after they had this conversation – but he had an odd feeling that it had been irresponsible, due to how serious of a situation they were in.

            But Richie did not look concerned about that when he propped his chin on Eddie’s chest and crinkled his nose slightly. “There’s nothing to regret,” is all he had said, but his eyes conveyed so much more. They told Eddie that he was glad they had done what they did, because neither of them knew if they would live to see another day. They told Eddie that he would do it again in a heartbeat, if the situation were to repeat itself and he was given the choice.

            So Eddie nodded, satisfied by that response, and said, “Okay. Good.”

            He thinks about that now, as they make their way down the rickety steps leading to the basement of the house on Neibolt. Richie’s hand is clutched tightly in his own, their fingers intertwined and shoulders pressed together. So far, he hasn’t spoken to anyone other than Eddie, and even then he only spoke when they were still lying in bed and postponing get out from under the duvet for as long as they possibly could. Eddie thinks it’s because of a mixture of things, of nerves and anxieties and uncertainties hovering over him like a dark cloud. The others have been giving him silent, worried looks ever since they came downstairs for breakfast, but no one has tried to ask what’s wrong, already aware of what the answer would likely be.

            _What’s wrong_ is this entire situation. _What’s wrong_ is the fact that they’re in this god damn house again, getting ready to descend that rope and navigate the sewers and fight for their lives in order to stop this from happening to anyone else. _What’s wrong_ is that Richie only got two days with them before having to come down here and face his worst fears all over again.

            So no one asks, and he doesn’t speak, and Eddie holds his hand just a little bit tighter to silently let him know that they’re in this together. Perhaps a childish move, but it seems to help, seeing as Richie quickly flashes him the smallest of smiles and lets some of the tension bleed out of him, shoulders slumping slightly and a long breath puffing past his lips. Eddie’s gaze lingers on him a moment longer, wanting to do more than just help him relax – wanting to take him away from the danger entirely.

            He looks away when Bill says his name, holding the rope out in his direction with an expression of pitiful sorrow, of guilt and pain and wariness. “You went first last time,” is all he says, but there’s a twitch in his brows that tells Eddie he doesn’t have to be the first now. Eddie frowns, but he takes the rope, releases his grip on Richie reluctantly, and makes his descent with a bitter taste in his mouth.

            Being back in the sewers feels like a bad dream. For a moment, Eddie considers pinching his own arm just to see if he’ll wake up and be in bed with Richie all over again, but his mind would not be able to conjure up the vile stench that’s wafting through the air. As much as he doesn’t want it to be, this is real – they are here, in what he believes is the worst place in the world, illuminating their path with their flashlights and following Eddie as he leads the way. And they don’t mean to, but all of them feel obligated to keep Richie protected, so while he holds Eddie’s hand and trails behind him, the rest of them form a kind of half circle around him, creating a slight barrier between him and the rest of the sewers. If he had noticed, he would have told them that it’s unnecessary, but his mind is too occupied with shuffling through the mucky water to realize what they’re doing.

            At least, not until It makes It’s first move, and far ahead, the sound bouncing off the stone walls and causing ripples in the water, they hear a loud laugh. The sound is twisted and gurgled and horrible to listen to, making all of them freeze mid step and finch away, but it seems to get louder anyway, as if the source of the noise is getting closer. Sure enough, after only a moment of waiting, their flashlights are able to pick up on some movement right at the edge of the light – at first, a foot, then legs, then the entire, looming figure of Pennywise, just standing there with a grin, presence alone threatening and unnerving.

            “We’re not scared of you,” Beverly tells It, and her voice is steady, her eyes are steeled over. Everything about her radiates strength. It just smiles wider, razor sharp teeth glinting, yellow eyes looking joyous and bright and intimidating.

            “Some of you are,” It coos teasingly, taking another step forward. Mike shifts, looking like he wants to start fighting It now, but he knows better – he knows that the thing they have to fight, the actual body of It, is further down these tunnels, laying cowardly in It’s next and protecting It’s eggs. It doesn’t seem to mind that, however, only taking another large step forward, closing in on them slowly as It says, “Actually, it’s only one of you. Oh, but which one of you is it? Could it be…” It vanishes suddenly, unexpectedly, and reappears behind Ben, mouth hovering besides Ben’s ear as It whispers, “You?”

            Ben jumps, but when he turns his head, he looks more pissed off than afraid, tightening his grip on his flashlight, looking ready to swing it directly into It’s skull. “Fat fucking chance,” he spits.

            It _tsk’s_ condescendingly, backing away to slink into the shadows, only to once against step forward next to Stan, It’s head cocked to the side. “Is it you?” It asks with a low hum, and Eddie hates how human It sounds, voice even and features dancing with amusement. It brings up a hand, presses a gloved finger to the side of Stan’s face, where the faint scarring still remains. With another distorted laugh, It muses, “You know, I saw a different future for you, Stanny boy. I never thought you’d live to make it down here. Are you the one that’s afraid?”

            Stan huffs, eyes narrowed down into a glare. “You wish,” he says easily, squaring his shoulders and crossing his arms defiantly over his chest. It properly cackles at that, but backs away once more, fading into the darkness surrounding them. For a moment, they all shine their flashlights around, trying to find It, and they’re so busy looking outside of their group that they don’t bother to look in.

            “But I think it’s you,” It whispers into Richie’s ear, one hand curled around his shoulder and the other pressing against his windpipe, making his breathing stutter in his chest. Eddie feels the way Richie tightens his hold on his hand, and he sees Richie’s Adam’s apple bob with a rough swallow, face going pale, eyes squeezing shut. It chuckles harshly, pressing down on Richie’s throat just enough to make him release a choked off noise, and practically purrs, “Oh, you’re _terrified,_ aren’t you, Trashmouth?”

            “Get the fuck away from him,” Eddie snaps, tugging lightly on Richie’s hand to pull him out of It’s grip and step between them. It’s twisted grin falls instantly, yellow eyes burning bright with anger and lips drawing back in a sneer, but It doesn’t say anything else, only disappears again, this time for good. Once Eddie can feel the pressure of It’s presence leave the air, he spins back around, facing Richie fully and cradling his face in his hands, brows pinched together. “Are you okay?”

            And Richie looks _devastated,_ his features scrunched up and exhales shaky. For the first time since this morning, he actually speaks, breathing out a quiet, guilt-ridden, “You shouldn’t have to protect me like that. I can- I _know_ I can be- be _stronger_ than this, I _know_ it, but I just- I’m so fucking _scared—”_

            Eddie shushes him, pulling him in and enveloping him in a hug, softly promising, “I won’t let anything happen to you, okay? I’m not fucking losing you again.” It’s not a promise he can make, not really, but he does it anyway, and Richie melts into him with a nod, sniffling slightly and ducking his head in order to tuck himself beneath Eddie’s jaw. He doesn’t see them move closer, but he feels the rest of their friends besides him, warmth radiating from their bodies and love soaked into their gazes, and he decides that, afraid or not, there’s no way he’s going to let this clown ruin the life he just got back.

 

 

 

 

            It is not a pretty sight, the seven of them crowding around the weakened, trembling body of what It truly is. Eight long, unsteady legs kick out to try and take them down, unable to summon more strength after already using so much energy attempting to overpower them in the Ritual of Chüd. A feeble attempt, because these are not kids – they are not afraid by such trivial things anymore. Using mummies and lepers and werewolves and other common nightmares will not make them lurch back and cry out in fear. No, the only thing they are afraid of now is not winning this fight, and that is a fear that It cannot use against them properly, one that It cannot manifest.

            _PLEASE,_ It begs them, pleading and wishing and hoping, because It is the one that is afraid now – It is falling apart and crumbling in on Itself, and It knows that the Turtle is dead, but It swears It can hear his low, condescending chuckle, as if watching this battle from somewhere past death. _PLEASE DON’T DO THIS I’LL DO ANYTHING I’LL DO WHATEVER YOU WANT PLEASE STOP THIS—_

            Bill steps forward, dodging another flailing spider leg and flexing his hands before curling them into fists at his side. “You can beg,” he says coldly, “but it won’t help you.”

            It properly _wails_ when the rest of them start to move forward, all of them feeling much taller than It despite the fact that It is multiple times larger than any human could ever be. _This can’t be happening,_ It cries, pushing Itself back until it hits the wall of the sewer, rendering It stuck and at the mercy of them. _You can’t DO THIS! YOU CAN’T DO THIS THIS WASN’T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN HE WASN’T SUPPOSED TO COME BACK THERE WERE ONLY SUPPOSED TO BE SIX OF YOU THIS CAN’T HAPPEN THIS ISN’T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN PLEASE JUST LET ME GO I’LL LEAVE YOU ALONE I PROMISE I’M SORRY JUST LET ME GO LET ME GO PLEASE LET ME GO—_

            It’s words make them freeze, and with a sudden burst of obvious, dizzying clarity, they understand. They realize, with a furious certainty, that what had happened to Richie was done at the will of this monster before them. And Richie feels any lingering fear drain away, turning into bewilderment, then bubbling into boiling hot, uncontrollable anger. “You took my life away from me,” he murmurs, shaking his head slowly. “It was _you._ _You_ did that.”

            _I can give it back,_ It tells him instantly, desperate to do whatever it takes to spare It’s life. _I’ll send you back, all of you, and it’ll be like it never happened. I can do that if you don’t kill me. You’ll get to grow up with your friends and I will never do anything to any of you ever again! Please!_

            “No,” Richie says, chin up, shoulders squared, and with that, the seven of them charge forward, eyes murderous and fists raised. It lets out a scream, trying with the best of It’s ability to kick them away, occasionally snagging one of them in the leg or the side, drawing some blood here and creating bruises there, but none of that is enough for It to escape. None of them know how long it takes, but eventually, they back away from what is now a lifeless corpse, It’s heart ripped from It’s body and laying on the ground, blackish blood coating their arms and soaking into their clothes. And, with a simultaneous exhale, they let the tension drain from their bodies, and they realize that it’s over.

            They realize that they’re free.

 

 

 

 

[June, 2018]

 

            Eddie’s eyes are closed, palms pressed against his eyelids to block out the light as he rocks back and forth on his feet, unable to suppress his grin. Around him, he hears a mixture of voices, giggles and laughter and the splashing of water. The sun warms his skin as it shines down on him, pleasant and relaxing and nice, and he thinks he could just stand here all day and be perfectly content. But then he feels something poke him in the side, followed by a high pitched, gentle voice saying, “You can look now.”

            From where he’s sitting, Richie watches Eddie drop his hands, momentarily squinting as his eyes adjust to the bright summer day, then immediately release a dramatic gasp at the sight of the small sand castle in front of him. He drops to his knees, taking on a very serious look, and murmurs, “If you want me to be honest, this is, without a doubt, the best sand castle anyone has ever built in the history of all time. How did you do that, Mandy? Are you a secret professional sand castle builder?” He gasps again, eyes going wide, and lowers his voice to whisper, “Have you be lying to us this whole time?”

            “No!” Mandy protests, laughing brightly, her grin wide and toothy as she looks up at Eddie.

            “She’s just naturally talented,” Ben calls out from where he’s sitting at the edge of the water, his hands held out in front of him as he watches Ricky amble into the small waves.

            Beverly nods her agreement, sitting in the water on her knees, her hands also held out just in case Ricky trips, ready to catch him and pull him to safety if need be. She only flashes Eddie a quick look, not wanting her eyes to stray away from her two-year-old son for too long, as she tells him, “Her dad’s the best architect this country has ever seen, after all. You should see the things she builds when she’s playing with the Legos that Patty gave her for her birthday.”

            Scoffing, Ben lowers a hand just enough to splash Beverly, his cheeks dusted pink. The action makes Ricky jump in shock, then release a shrill kind of giggle, apparently thoroughly entertained. Richie grins at the sight, then shifts his gaze over just in time to watch Bill and Audra burst into loud cheers as they watch their son do a cartwheel in the sand, his smile wide and beaming. A few feet away from them, he sees Patty teaching Miranda how to skip rocks, encouraging her to try again when she doesn’t quite get it. Mike cheers her on from where he’s helping Stan, Robin and Debbie dig for seashells, placing the ones they like in a plastic tub that Stan had brought for that exact reason.

            This trip had been Mike’s idea, suggested over a celebratory dinner when him, Patty and Stan packed up their things and finally moved over to the west coast, joining Richie and Eddie in San Francisco. Ben and Beverly had moved to L.A. about a year ago, no longer needing to stick around in Boston in order for their architecture firm to thrive and wanting to expand their business elsewhere. They’re still not all together, not really, but they’re a lot closer and spend every holiday and every birthday together. When Mike brought up this concept, all of them renting out a beach house and spending an entire week secluded from the rest of the world, there had been no objections.

            And now they’re here.

            There are a lot of days where Richie feels like he isn’t _really_ here. Often, he fears he will simply blink and everyone around him will disappear, fading into nonexistence and leaving him all alone again. He’s gotten a lot better about it, but he doesn’t think it will ever really go away, no matter how much time passes. It gets easier with every passing day, however – even more so when he allows himself to enjoy the family he has, the life he’s been gifted. Like now, for example. As his mind tries to wander into overwhelming uncertainties, he just makes himself focus on where he is, sitting on this beach, his two-year-old daughter on his lap and his three-year-old son trying to draw in the sand using a stick he found on the walk from the house, watching his husband build sand castles with their niece and soaking in the sun. This is what he dreamed of every single day, what he wished for, and now he has it.

            In fact, it had been on a beach much similar to this one, exactly six years ago, where he imagined this very moment. A lot of the assumptions he made had been right, too, save for a few exceptions – he never considered Mike and Stan being in a three-way relationship, and he never guessed that Bill would name his child after Georgie, though that much felt obvious as soon as he learned about it. And it’s surreal, comparing the lives he pictured to the lives in front of him, seeing the ways they line up and the ways they differ, his heart aching as he realizes that one of them had been wishful thinking and the other one is very real, present and vivid and bright. Lizzie grabs his hand tiredly, playing with his fingers as she curls up in his lap and rests her head on his chest, and in front of him, Cole points at his drawing in the sand, his voice lilted with pride.

            “What’s wrong?” Eddie asks him, sitting next to him and taking his other hand into his own, and it’s now that Richie realizes he’s crying, tears welling in the corners of his eyes and trickling down his cheeks silently. Richie doesn’t answer at first, only glances around him again, taking in the scene while swallowing the lump in his throat. Eddie reaches up, brushes some of his tears away. “Richie?”

            “I just…” Richie sniffles, letting out a quiet laugh, not wanting to disturb the now sleeping child leaning on him. He grins at Eddie, wide and wobbly and heartfelt, and tells him, “I- I never thought I’d ever get to have… all of this.”

            Eddie’s worry melts into a soft smile. He leans over, brushes a gentle kiss to the curve of Richie’s cheek, conveying the things he cannot think to say in that one action. When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far, wrapping an arm around Richie and shuffling back until Richie can lean against him comfortably, head resting on his shoulder. Neither of them speak, finding no reason to. Instead, they sit together, and they watch as their family enjoys their day in the sun around them.

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think and hmu on tumblr @ sunsetozier !!


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